


Catching Heat

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Aftercare, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed: Revelations, Cock Warming, Demisexuality, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Time Travel, oversensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-23 11:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17682188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Ezio arrives in Masyaf for the first time, unprepared for the weather.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge, many thanks.
> 
> If you aren't familiar with Assassin's Creed Revelations, watch at least few minutes of this [letsplay](https://youtu.be/N9JPx9ZH2n0?t=467). This fic starts basically almost immediately after the first climbing tutorial after the Ezio cinematic. It's not necessary to understand this fic I guess... but it is a cool cinematic.
> 
> Background music [Assassin's Creed Revelations Main Menu Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vq12-7feyg4)

Ezio had prepared for many things on his journey to Masyaf – his pilgrimage to the birthplace of their order. He expected danger and trouble, he expected to be eventually forced to fight his way through. Rarely are the quests of Assassins easy, and Masyaf may lie in ruins now, but it is still the home for many secrets and possible treasures one might seek. It is not without reason that he is seeking them, after all.

He had not expected the cold.

The people of Acre had warned him of the dangers on the road and prepared him to the best of their ability – they had even given him furs, told him that the wind on the mountains can cut through to the bone. So Ezio had dressed warmly, too warmly he thought, and now it's to find it wasn't enough.

It had been a blessing in disguise to be captured as he was, when he finally did reach Masyaf castle – the proximity to the Templars and their fires had kept him warm a moment longer. He almost appreciated it, and would have not minded a longer time in captivity, were it not to end in his execution. But alas...

Ezio pauses on Masyaf's windswept rooftops, blowing hot air into his cupped palms. His fingers lost feeling only some feet into clinging to the walls of Masyaf castle, and now his fingertips ache terribly – and yet, paradoxically, he cannot feel the cuts he suffered climbing the sharp ledges of the broken walls. Cold is siphoning the very blood from his hands, it feels like, turning them pale and stiff. He will need to steal gloves before he's through here. Before that, though…

He needs to steal his way into the Library and claim what the Templars are also seeking – or failing that, at least stop the Templars from claiming it first.

Ezio pauses over the edge of the castle roof. There, according to the maps he's seen, should be the garden. Altaïr had written about it in his codex – of the Fruits of Masyaf's Garden, a harem of women there to serve the Assassins and offer them comfort in their hard lives. In Altaïr's somewhat derisive, dismissive writing, they walked on bare feet and had their shoulders bared – looking down on the icy, snow-covered clearing, Ezio can't imagine it. There was something Altaïr mentioned, though.

When he was young, Altaïr used to enjoy startling the women in the garden by taking a leap from the roof into the garden pond. Even great masters were unruly boys once.

Ezio looks down and then lets his vision go dark into the hues of safety and danger, and there he sees it, the pond. It is not safe – it is covered with a layer of ice, and though it's thin, it would surely break his body should he fall on it. The ice must be broken first.

So, Ezio defiles what remains is the greatness of the Assassins of old by loosening a stone eagle upon the castle roof and sending it down and into the decorative pond. Another Eagle of Masyaf, making the Leap of Faith – under its weight the ice is broken with a crash and the water splashes, liquid and welcoming under the frozen surface. Thus with the landing made safe, the Eagle of Florence follows.

The water makes for softer landing than ice, but the cold hits him with the power of a cannon blast, knocking the breath out of him. Ezio barely makes it back to the surface for the shock, his muscles locking up with the cold, his body all but convulsing.

Already he knows the watery leap was a terrible mistake – and it grows worse still when he gets to the surface. The wind, already bad before, feels like thousand blades of ice on his wet face and hands, and he can feel the frost creeping into the soaked folds of his clothes. They are already stiffening with the new, worse, ice.

He cannot stay outside, the cold will kill him.

So, shuddering and cursing himself, Ezio presses on with the hope that the Templars have fires going in the Library. And if not… perhaps he would at least get answers to his questions before the ice claimed him.

There are more Templars inside, that at least is something. They are guarding an ongoing excavation effort, some of them even taking part in it, chipping away at the castle's foundations. They have not entered the Library yet – they haven't been able to open the door.

Ezio dispatches the guards directly, leaning eagerly to whatever warmth the bout of action might give him. There are rivulets of cold water dripping from his hood down his neck and forehead, but he can't feel them on his face, it has gone numb. Inside the Masyaf's castle is no warmer than it was outside it – if anything, the cold has made a nest in the stone walls and it lingers like a homeowner who welcomes no visitors.

The guards offer little opposition, and he kills them before they notice him. Then Ezio looks down on the men he killed and he thinks he should take something from them. Money, the contents of their weapons pouches? Yes, that must be it, he lost most of his weapons and the Templars stole what money he had – but fingers are so stiff, he can't manage the fastenings on their purses. His joints hurt.

Everything is moving very slowly now.

He is growing confused. Ezio has read that cold might have such effect on men, but he never imagined he, a son of Florence, might ever experience it. It's a most peculiar thing, to be so slow.

Would it be a worthy death, to be killed by the elements, rather than by the blade of an enemy?

No, this is not how he dies. This is survivable, he only needs to get warm again and he will live – and he will be damned before he lets his own stupidity kill him at his age. There are many deaths worthier than this, and he had managed to avoid them – this _will not_ kill him.

Determined, Ezio turns to the door. There is a worker there, huddling in the floor, panicked. "Be merciful, please!" the man cries in Arabic. "I am a working man with a family."

It is difficult to concentrate on what the man says – Ezio's grasp of Arabic is poor at best of times, and this is not one of them. He understands enough to know that the man is innocent of the Templars' crimes and there only to try and force the Library door open. So far he has only failed, and so have the Templars – but there is a book that might offer answers which the Templars have.

"Bene," Ezio says and gives the man what little coin he has managed to take from the dead Templars. "Go home, my friend, and find some honest work under honest men."

The worker goes, though not happily, and Ezio sways. He is so cold, his hands only know pain and he can feel strength leaving him. In the corner of his eyes, Ezio can see the ghost of Altaïr, watching him. "Would that you could offer me the hospitality of warm fire and dry clothes, fratello mio. A fireplace and wood would do also."

Altaïr offers him neither, walking to him and then through him and through the library door while he is at it. Ezio looks after him and sighs, reaching to touch the door, and –

Oh, it's quite warm to the touch. Surprisingly warm – definitely warmer than Ezio's wet clothes and shivering flesh. Ezio leans his whole body to it, shuddering, and then, with shaking, aching hands begins to strip.

Every belt buckle seems to tear into the aching skin of his hands, but he gets them open, slowly and steadily. The wet fur and cape, the belt around his waist, his armour and finally the robe. Even the undershirt he wears is soaked through, and even being close to skin has not warned the cold water – under it his skin feels very vulnerable indeed to the cold air.

But the door to Altaïr's library is warmer than the air, hopefully warm enough to save him from succumbing to the frost. It's even getting warmer as he presses his wet chest against it, seeking at much contact with it as he can, and thus almost missing how the door reacts to the contact – not until it begins glowing under his cheek.

Light is cutting lines into the door, perfect as if drawn by a ruler. They form no sensible pattern or image, only cutting through the strange stone, reminding Ezio of something… a place from many years ago.

The chamber under Vatican, where the goddess Minerva spoke to him. Or, no, not to him, _through_ him to someone else. To –

"Desmond?" Ezio asks, confused – even though no, it cannot possibly be. But isn't that why he is here, to get answers to the questions that still plague him, the warning, the message – the prophecy and the phantom it was spoken to. Even Altaïr had written about it, the chain of events leading somewhere, to someone, beyond their understanding.

If these are to be his last moments, then he wants answers.

"If this is you, Desmond, or for you," Ezio says, bracing himself against the door with both hands. The stone glows under his palms. "I would ask you a question – or a dozen, if I may. I would ask you what is it all for. My life and those that came before me, who will come after me – what is it that we are working towards?"

No answers, but the door glows brighter.

"I feel it looming ahead of all those I have known and trained, even the ones who have come and gone. A destiny I do not understand," Ezio says. "Is it for you, do we exist in service to you? And if so, for what purpose? To save the world from the Sun?"

No answer comes, and why would there be? This is not a vault built by ancient gods – it was built by Altaïr to harbour wisdom. Altaïr had seen visions of the future, however, and Ezio had hoped to finally set his heart at rest.

"Who are you?" Ezio begs. "I have served your purpose for thirty years – do I not deserve to know my master's will? What is it that you want from me – or do you want nothing at all?"

Silence. Ezio waits and then bows his head. Must be losing his senses – the cold is draining his sanity now. Maybe the door isn't even warm, maybe there is no light and he is only imagining it all in his last moments before he succumbs to his own mortal idiocy. A foolish man on a foolish quest for answers he might never understand.

And in the silence there is a whisper that seems to come from nowhere. " _I just want to go home_."

The door bursts into blinding brightness, thousands lines of golden light cutting through it before it gets too bright for Ezio to see. Under his hand the door glows with warmth and then it changes, shifts – opens without a single key in place.

Ezio stumbles into the light – into the outstretched arm of a man standing in front of him. The light lingers on the man, etching lines on his skin – they run down his face, his neck, his bare arm, marking each finger with a line of gold. The man's eyes glow, and then he blinks at Ezio, confused.

The man asks something, a single word, but Ezio cannot understand him. The second thing the man says he does know. " _Ezio_?"

"Desmond," Ezio says, shivering and confused but absolutely sure about this. "You are _Desmond_."

The man gapes at him and then looks away. Behind Ezio there's shouting of alarm, clank of armour and boots on the wet floor. It's seems like the noise Ezio was making and probably the light of the door opening was noticed.

"Templars," Ezio says, hoping that Desmond will understand him. And apparently the man does, for his face goes serious and he moves away.

In the excavated hall, there's more shouting, someone calling, "Halt, stop –!" as soldiers rush their way.

Desmond does something, waves his hand – and with a sound like groaning stone, the library door closes once more, locking Ezio in with Desmond while the Templars are left outside – with most of Ezio's clothes.

Ezio almost laughs, but his teeth are chattering. It's warmer in Altaïr's library, but not by much. And he is still wet and cold and now only partially dressed.

What a way to meet your God.

"This is – Altaïr's library?" Desmond asks in a shockingly familiar Florentine accent and turns back to him. "What the – and why are you half naked?"

"Apologies," Ezio manages, shuddering. "My clothes were – wet and cold – and –"

He sways, and then Desmond is there, looking at him in alarm. His touch feels like fire, so hot his hands are on Ezio's chilled skin, and his abused body doesn't know whether to recoil from it or lean into it.

"You're freezing – and _soaked through_ ," Desmond says, alarmed.

"I fell – into a frozen pond –" Ezio answers and shudders. Of all the shameful displays, this one just had to be the one of his own making.

Desmond touches his face, his palm wide and hot on Ezio's forehead. He says something that sounds vaguely like Greek and then says, "We need to get you warmed up. Come on."

Helplessly shivering, Ezio can't help but follow.

* * *

 

Ezio is no stranger to the sickbed. Whether laid low by injury or illness, he has enjoyed his fair share of indisposition in his life. So, the way time stretches and fades isn't entirely unfamiliar to him – how it seems to move so slow one moment, and then fly by him in a blink of an eye.

At first, Desmond is there, in front of him, pulling off his white, hooded doublet and using it to dry Ezio's wet skin, urging him to take his boots and his hose off. Ezio shivers and lets him, feeling colder and then warmer and then colder still as he stands almost naked there, under the gaze of this strange man, a creature from his dreams and nightmares both. Desmond takes his hands, holds them between his much warmer hands until they hurt, and then he's gone.

Next, there is a fire. Desmond makes it in the middle of a wide space – the _Library_ – from what Ezio thinks are the individual shelves from bookshelves – without care he breaks them apart and then lights them with a small device that fits into his palm – Ezio can't see it, but it doesn't look like flint and steel. It works as if by a mere flick of the man's finger. The flare of light seems impossibly cold at first.

"Stay awake, Ezio," Desmond says, and all of sudden Ezio's face is between his hands. It's so warm now, too warm – Desmond's hands are a little bigger than his own, the man is taller. There is a fire blazing beside them, but the floor is cold underneath and Ezio shivers – he is sitting on something, his own clothes? No, it's Desmond's shirt, he thinks, a dark thin fabric, dry but not thick enough to stave off the cold.

"My hands hurt," Ezio admits apologetically, because he finds he's resting them on Desmond's waist – it's scorching hot under his aching skin, and he can't help but claw at the heat desperately. The man is shirtless now, sitting in front of him on his knees.

"I know," Desmond says. "I couldn't find any blankets, and all the cloth here is too old, and Altaïr – never mind. Come here."

Ezio goes, feeling as if he's a ship being pulled and pushed by the tide, helpless against such massive force. Desmond draws him in and then chest to chest with him, lying on the floor under him – protecting Ezio from the chill of the floor. The fire blazes away next to them, and Desmond angles them so that most of its heat impacts Ezio's side and back. It's scorching hot, and Ezio's naked skin tingles under the burn.

"Will you not be cold yourself?" Ezio mumbles, confused as his body shakes one moment, and feels completely boneless the next, as if it cannot decide whether to panic or not. His feet feel fine, strangely, his toes scraping against the fabric of Desmond's odd hose – they had been protected from getting wet by his boots, he realises.

"I'm not the one with hypothermia," Desmond murmurs. "Nor the idiot who decided to take a dip in an icy pond while it's _snowing_ out."

"How," Ezio asks and winces. His hands are pressed to Desmond's chest, and he can almost feel the man's skin now, it's soft and smooth and finely dusted with hair. It _hurts_ his fingers. "How do you know it is snowing?"

"Lucky guess," Desmond murmurs and his hands move to Ezio's back, stroking up. Ezio shudders – how can anyone be so warm? Desmond runs so hot he must have a fever. "Are you feeling any warmer?"

"Yes," Ezio sighs. "Thank you. But I do not understand."

"Yeah, me neither," Desmond agrees. "Let's just get you completely warmed up first, we'll talk about it later."

Time stretches again. Ezio thinks he might have slipped into slumber for a moment, or perhaps into some sort of haze. When he is alert again, they have shifted places, though not by much. They are lying on their sides now, with Ezio's back to the fire, his front to Desmond. His hands are tucked into the man's armpits for warmth and Desmond is stroking his spine.

Desmond isn't looking at him – due to the height difference his eyes aren't in line with Ezio's, and so he is looking over him at the fire. It gives Ezio time to watch him and realise the position they are in. It is not the first time he's found himself in such a position with a man – not by far, truly – but it was not what he might have ever expected of _this_ man. Before today, he couldn't even know that Desmond _was_ a man.

Yet he is – not far different from a human man, at that. He is tall, his skin slightly darker than Ezio's own, and his eyes a dark, glimmering amber that seems to hold flecks of light within. The lines drawn on his skin are gone now, but they had left marks on his skin – like the faded markings made on skin by some Arabic people Ezio had met in Acre, not quite like tattoos. A faint, golden brown lines mark Desmond's face now – from his right eye down and then at an angle towards his jaw, over his forehead and over the corner of his other eye. The marks continue down his neck, the lines perfect and the turns sharp. His bare arm has several of them – but on his left he has a more familiar black of an actual tattoo.

Under his fingers, Ezio can feel a heart in Desmond's chest, beating a familiar rhythm. His body is nothing unusual for a man, slightly on the thinner side perhaps, long and lean. He even smells like a man, with faintest aroma of what might have been some sort of soap. And he looks so young – for someone Ezio had heard of now over ten years ago, he is far too young.

Desmond has a familiar scar that cuts over the side of his lips.

Ezio is confused.

Desmond looks down at him, his hand stilling on Ezio's back. Then he shifts slightly, moving so that he can get an elbow under his body, propping himself slightly up. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, I think I am close to recovered. You have my thanks," Ezio admits. "How long has it been?"

"Few hours," Desmond says and glances away. "They haven't stopped banging on the door once."

Ezio frowns and then looks up. There, the echo of impacts upon stone, sharp and forceful – they are trying to use pickaxes on the door of the Library. Judging by the sound and how it doesn't change, it is not having much of an effect. "They cannot break through it," he says.

"No, I don't think so," Desmond agrees, looking towards the door. Then he looks back at Ezio, his face carefully expressionless.

Ezio… doesn't know what to say. So many questions over so many years – so much confusion he hadn't been able to put into words. There was always so much to do, in Rome and for the Brotherhood. Now, his duty for the Brotherhood is over and he is on a pilgrimage for his own sake and for the sake of his family's memory, and here, at last, he has someone who may be able to give him answers…

And he is speechless.

Desmond lifts a hand and brushes Ezio's hair back. It's curling now that it is drying, fine strands stuck to Ezio's forehead – Desmond cards his fingers through them and the expressionlessness breaks, if only a little. He looks reverent, almost, and the breath Ezio didn't know he was holding escapes. Desmond's touch is gentle, even a little hesitant.

"Your clothes are probably still wet," Desmond says quietly. "Not that you were wearing much to begin with. Probably best you stay near the fire."

With that said, he moves to get up. Ezio sits up also, frowning, and looks around.

Altaïr's library is…

Empty.

There are shelves there but no books, no scrolls, not even stone tablets – there is nothing there but empty bookcases, now missing most of their shelves, and dust. Cobwebs mark where all the promised writing should have been. And among the ancient dust there is a chair and on that chair… a skeleton, wearing the hooded robes of an Assassin.

"Is that…?" Ezio asks quietly.

"Altaïr, yeah," Desmond agrees without looking and stands up. His voice quivers. "We might be able to use his clothes still, they've not completely fallen apart."

Ezio casts him an incredulous look. Steal the robes of the first true Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood?

Desmond smiles faintly. "I promise you, he wouldn't mind," he says quietly and looks away. "I'll look around first, though, there might still be something else here we can use."

Ezio looks after him as he walks away, still naked from waist up. Desmond's shirt is on the floor under him, now joined by the strange hooded doublet the man wore before. Curious, Ezio touches the fabric of the odd doublet – it's softer than he expected, warmer too. It's also already dry, so Ezio pulls the odd doublet on and then he eases his, thankfully dry, boots on as well and goes to pay his respects to Altaïr.

Outside, Templars are still banging on the walls of the Library. It creates a strange, echoing beat that resonates through the Library like the ringing of distant church bells.

"Requiescat in Pace, Altaïr," Ezio murmurs, bowing his head to the old master, wondering. All the stories spoke of a library of great wisdom, but all there is a tomb for a man who had died sitting up – and a phantom, given physical form. What a strange conclusion for his journey, he muses at the sound of further banging, not that the journey is over yet.

Altaïr is holding something in his skeletal hands, a strange discus. It glimmers faintly with golden inlaid, and after a moment of consideration Ezio decides not to touch it. He does not yet understand this place, nor its meaning, and he dares not to risk further confusion.

He returns instead to the fire and checks his remaining clothes for anything usable. Almost all he had was left outside the library door – clothes, armour, weapons. All he has is his hose and boots. Pitiful. With any luck his robes at least would still be there, outside the door… if they ever might get out of here again.

Desmond returns, not with clothes nor with cloth of any kind… but with an Apple of Eden in hand. It glimmers faintly with light in his hand, and as if in reaction, Desmond's arm is marked with glowing lines again.

Ezio stands up, sharp and uneasy. "Another artefact?"

"Altaïr's Apple of Eden," Desmond agrees, glancing towards the skeleton and then sharply away again, his face lined with honest grief. "He built this place to protect it. It, and last of his memory discs, is all there is in here. Nothing to wear, sadly, except for what Altaïr is wearing."

Ezio swallows, looking at the Apple Desmond is holding. "What do you mean to do with that?" he asks warily.

Desmond looks at the Apple, lifting it up a little. "I'm going to get some answers about what the hell is going on here," he says and looks at Ezio. "I'm not supposed to be here, Ezio, and I don't know why I am here. So. I'm going to find out – I figured you'd want to know too."

Ezio hesitates and then nods. "Yes," he agrees. "But I'd rather ask you than _that_ ," he says casting a look at the Apple. "I have found that those artefacts rarely offer straight answers, only more confusion, more questions."

Desmond hums in agreement. "Yeah," he says. "It's the best I got, though. You can ask me, Ezio, but I don't know if I have any answers to give you."

Ezio eyes him silently for a moment and then steps forward, tugging at the edges of the strange doublet. "Who are you?" he asks, searching the man's face. " _What_ are you?"

The man blinks at him and then smiles, crooked and wry. "My name is Desmond Miles. I am an Assassin. I'm… just an Assassin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me like 6 hours to think of a name for this damn thing and I'm still not happy. It's just a dang "Hypothermia as excuse for cuddling" fic. Also a "No, Ezio, wat r u doing, don't jump into icy pond, dats dumb" fic. And "For some reason I really want to ship Desmond with Old Ezio"... fic. (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻
> 
> Names are hard is what I'm sayin'


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Ezio still feels the Apple humming in his palm. He has used one more times than he now dares to count, and knowing that there is one hidden under the Santa Maria in Aracoeli still tempts him at times – there are so many things to learn from it, so much power to gain from it. He knows on too close a personal level how a master such as Altaïr might be tempted. It is only the thought of the hateful things that their enemies could accomplish with the device that stays his hand.

Seeing Desmond hold one with such ease, the Apple's power radiating down his hand and inside his skin… it makes Ezio feel queasy in a way he cannot quite explain. The man's familiarity with the objects of Those That Came Before is understandable – whatever he is, Minerva spoke to him through distances Ezio still cannot understand, and she did it _through him_. Which means Desmond has the means of watching through a man's eyes, to hear through a man's ears. Another artefact, perhaps? Whichever it is, Desmond is familiar with these devices.

Now he handles the Apple with the confidence of man who knows much about it, perhaps all about it, and Ezio doesn't know how he feels about the implications, as obvious as they should have been.

Desmond holds the Apple up, and it bursts into beams of light, casting strange shadows upon the walls, with symbols flickering in the light and darkness both. He doesn't say anything, only looks at the Apple and waits as the light consumes the walls and the floors and everything… changes.

It is only the awareness of the floor beneath him that keeps Ezio from thinking they are about to fall. Though he can still feel it, he cannot see it – the floor is gone, as are the walls. Replaced by darkness, lit by golden flickers, symbols that hang in the air.

A man in brilliant robes walks out of nothingness, stepping into existence from thin air. "Can you hear me, Cipher?" he asks. "Do you see me?"

Ezio, alarmed and intrigued, steps closer to the man, closer to Desmond. The unknown old man is like Minerva had been – golden and see through. A spectre of what he assumes is another god.

"I see you, Jupiter," Desmond says and lowers the Apple. He looks around, frowning. "Didn't think that would happen – I thought I'd need the Animus for this."

"It is not the Animus that allowed this Nexus of Time," the golden man says, looking around. "It is the First Mentor who built this conduit – that was one of his tasks. It is an anchor by which I may commune."

"Oh," Desmond says. "That… explains it, I guess."

Ezio looks between them warily. "I do not understand," he admits. "What is this?"

The golden man, Jupiter, looks at him. Desmond does too – under their gazes Ezio feels too young and too old all at once – and terribly out of place.

"Originally, it was one of our failsafes," Jupiter says and looks at Desmond. "We could not know which message might reach its destination, so many were devised. This Nexus was simply one of many, an active message, like the Vault where you spoke to Minerva. A place to commune with the Cipher through time."

"The Cipher," Ezio asks, looking at Desmond for clarification.

"Me," Desmond says, shaking his head, and looks at Jupiter. "But I did what I was supposed to do – I activated the Grand Temple," he says to the god. "I did what I was supposed to – why am I _here_?"

Jupiter seems as though confused by that and goes to answer – but before he can, another golden figure appears, this one familiar.

"Minerva," Desmond says with surprise, and Ezio releases a breath. A goddess, joining a god – and both their attentions are on Desmond. Again, Ezio is nothing but a spectator in the theatre of gods.

"This is what you asked for," Minerva says. "I could not save you when the time came, I could not turn you away from the Eye, but there was a moment when the Eye was still under my power and under yours – this is what you _asked for,_  Desmond."

"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't," Desmond says warily, shaking his head. "Why would I ask for _this?_ "

"Did you not wish to go home?" Jupiter asks. "That very wish was written upon the Calculations. Even I, whose domain was never these numbers, could read it as such."

"This is not my home, this isn't even my time, this isn't my _anything_ – there is nothing here that I –" Desmond stops abruptly, in some obvious realisation that drains the incredulity from his face and replaces it with realisation.

"The place where the First Mentor resided," Jupiter says, motioning around them. "This fortress, where you once longed to go."

"And the Prophet," Minerva says, motioning to Ezio. "With whom you wished to be. These are things your mind looks upon and calls _home._ "

Desmond positively gapes at the gods while Ezio looks at him, intrigued and confused – and utterly taken aback. Desmond shakes his head again and looks at the two divine beings. "I don't – I _can't_ – this isn't even my time, and –" he trails off, helpless. "And – Ezio is…"

"Past his main effect upon the timeline," Minerva says. "The lineage and memories have been passed on. He has played his part."

"Time is a fickle thing," Jupiter agrees, taking few thoughtful steps. "Malleable and fixed at the same time – where you are concerned, anyway," he casts a look at Desmond. "From here you can no longer change the future. It has been Seen and so it will Be."

"But you can live here," Minerva says. "For the rest of your life."

"Which is something you cannot do in the future – for your death has been Seen also, by Juno – and so it must Be," Jupiter agrees.

Desmond looks between them, obviously speechless. When he manages to say anything, it is only, " _Why_?" with a great disbelief and distrust. "Why would you do this?"

"You think us so cruel we would not reward you?" Minerva asks. "We made you and you died for our work."

"We do as we must, but we are not unkind," Jupiter says somewhat imperiously. "We gave you the best we could, as thanks for the service you provided for us and for the world."

"This will be our last communion with you, Desmond," Minerva says. "Our part is now done as well – there is nothing more left to say. Our plan worked, and the world is saved. The rest is up to the future."

"No, wait – " Desmond says, but that is it. Like in the vault under the Vatican, the gods of antiquity say their part and then they're gone. They take away the light and the shadows as they go, taking away the strange Nexus and leaving Ezio and Desmond standing once more in Altaïr's library, which seems both darker and lighter for it.

Desmond turns to look at him, Apple still in hand but only shimmering with a steady flicker, not flaring with the brilliance as before. Ezio considers him, as he stands there, still shirtless, once more marked with golden lines.

"For years I thought I was only a messenger in a chain that stretched beyond my sight," Ezio muses. "That my part was never to understand, only to see and remember and pass on what I had experienced. To be not only a messenger, but the reward at the end of this chain –"

"You are not – don't take their words to heart," Desmond says quickly, stepping forward. Ezio lifts his chin and holds his ground, though the sight of the man coming at him with the Apple of Eden still in hand does make him uneasy. Desmond stops and draws a breath. "You are not a _thing_ anyone can just give out as a reward," he says wretchedly. "I'm so _sorry_. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Ezio considers him and finds himself almost amused by the man's dismay and horror. A decade he'd wondered and feared, a decade he worried. Now he thinks, Desmond is only a man after all – a young man, perhaps even a good man, but only a man nonetheless. "Don't be sorry. I am honoured," he says mildly, and smiles at the way the younger man winces. "I would like to learn what makes me so worthy, that gods bend time simply to give me to you. Though I must say, the timing is… odd." Not much of a gift he ended up being, frozen solid as he was.

"I can't believe this," Desmond bemoans and runs a hand over his face. Then he looks at the Apple in his hand. With no place to put it down, there are no tables here… he simply lets it fall to the floor.

"I would have you tell me," Ezio says. "I think perhaps now more than ever… I deserve to know."

"You do," Desmond agrees with an sigh. "It's not as grand a story as you might hope, though. And my part in it wasn't all that great."

"I would like to know, nonetheless," Ezio says, and then shivers. "By the fire, perhaps?"

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and looks him over and then smiles a little, awkward. "You look ridiculous wearing that," he says, nodding at the strange doublet Ezio is wearing, obviously reaching for something to lighten the mood.

"I am _cold,_ " Ezio says and turns to the fire. "I care not. Now come, and tell me why of all the things the gods might give you, you wished for an old man."

"I didn't –" Desmond says and looks like he would like to argue… but in the end he only sighs. "Yeah, alright," he agrees then.

* * *

 

Were it not for things Ezio had seen, both in his earlier life and just now, Desmond's story would be one difficult to believe. Future, technology, gods and the Sun, flaring like an agitated campfire, sending flames to the Earth… and ancient power to stop it.

Ezio had spoken at length about the Sun with various scholars and curious minds – and ten times that amount he's talked with Leonardo, as they contested the nature of the universe as it was written in the scripture. Leonardo is certain in that Earth revolves around the Sun and that both must be larger and older than the old texts claimed – but they could never come to conclusion about the actual age or size of either… or the true danger that lies therein. Leonardo suggested that neither the Earth nor the Sun were creations of God – or any other gods for that matter – but that all was spun into existence by the elements of the universe itself, and usually by that point they were suitably drunk that Ezio could take such talk without feeling as though he was going mad.

There is nothing to drink here, and Desmond's words come through unfiltered by a softening haze of intoxication. Ezio wonders of he is too old for this, or old enough to know that it should not even matter. Of all the heresies he's taken part in, this is surely not even near the top of that particular list.

And yet Desmond speaks of time that counts in tens of thousands of years – citing millions for age of the Earth and billions for age of the Sun – and Ezio feels slow and stupid, trying to comprehend it. He considers himself something of a well-learned man these days, he enjoys reading now and studying and thinks he's come to know the world in ways his younger self couldn't have even imagined… but this….

Desmond falls eventually quiet, adding another piece of a broken bookshelf to the fire and looking at him, waiting for his reaction. Ezio says nothing for a long time, setting his thoughts into order. Has he more questions? Yes, of course, but their importance has waned now. Knowing that those ancient plans had come into fruition, that their parts were played, that the Earth was saved… it should lay his heart at ease.

"And what happens after?" Ezio asks finally. "Once the Grand Temple has done its part and the Earth is shielded from the Sun's fire? What becomes of the world then?"

"I don't know," Desmond admits. "I guess everything just… continues."

Ezio looks at him, searching for grief and not finding it. For all intents and purposes, Desmond Miles had died to play his part on this cosmic stage, but he feels no bitterness for it, or sadness. He's satisfied with his role, even if it cut his life so short. And from what Ezio had heard and seen so far, the young man had not expected to get more time anywhere, never mind here.

"There is one thing you did not explain," Ezio comments and Desmond looks at him, expectant and wary. "You did not tell me why, of all things, this," he motions around them, "might be a worthy price for your sacrifice."

Desmond looks awkward now, embarrassed. It's a long moment before he says anything. "Everything true I learned about the Assassins, I learned from you," he admits then and then looks at Altaïr's library. "Altaïr showed me Assassins' history and how they could be – you showed me how they should be. And I never had a – home. Nowhere in my own time, nothing like I had when I was living your memories. I guess Minerva and Jupiter extrapolated from that."

Ezio hums in answer and tugs the hooded doublet tighter over his shoulders. Desmond looks at him and then looks at the fire again. "Having lived your life made it worth it," he says quietly. "I would have been fine with that without the Precursors taking liberties."

Ezio considers him. "You are too young to be so cavalier with your life."

"You jumped into a frozen pond, you have no leg to stand on."

"I did it so that I would not die upon the ice covering it," Ezio says and waves a hand. "And I did not die, as you can see."

Of course his body has to betray him then, as a sneeze overtakes him and leaves him shuddering. Desmond looks at him in alarm and then moves closer to him.

"You're probably going to get a cold," the young man says, sidling next to him. "I think your hose should be dry by now…"

"Truly, I must be a pitiful prize for the sacrifice you made," Ezio groans, feeling each of his five decades and more as he gets up to pull on what little clothes he has left. Desmond watches him and then grabs the thin shirt from the floor. "No," Ezio says sharply. "You are hardly clothed yourself – I already have your doublet."

Desmond hesitates, but thankfully isn't headstrong enough to argue – he pulls the dark shirt on. Not that it can offer much warmth – it has little in way of sleeves and is very thin besides.

Ezio pulls on his hose but leaves his boots off, opting to stretch out his legs to the fire instead. Outside, the banging on the library door has ceased. "It must be getting late," Ezio muses. "We should take this opportunity to escape."

"Not while you're about to get sick," Desmond says. "At least here it's dry and we have fire."

"But no food or water," Ezio says and looks at him. "Can the library door still be opened or are we doomed to share Altaïr's tomb?"

Desmond looks away, frowning. "We can open it from this side," he says. "But once out, we won't be able to get back in if the door closes, not without the keys. I think we should wait until you're better.

Ezio looks at him. "And if I grow worse?"

Desmond hesitates, biting at his scared lip. "You should at least rest a bit longer, for the night – just to be sure. Going out there, you're bound to get pneumonia," he says and at Ezio's expression, all but wheedles, "At least get a couple hours of sleep before we try breaking out, Ezio, _please._  You're still shivering."

Well, that's because it's still cold, Ezio doesn't say. The concern on Desmond's face as much as the ache in his bones and old scars makes him bend, in either case – and even knowing that he could fight like this did not make him eager to.

"A few hours," Ezio allows and Desmond relaxes visibly. "But the attempt is better made at night time. When the guards must be fewer and there aren't so many workers."

"You'll get no argument from me there – I'd just rather you didn't keel over in a dead faint in the middle of it," Desmond says.

Ezio finishes lacing his hose and then looks the way of Altaïr. "Is there nothing more here than him and the Apple?" he asks then quietly.

"He had one of the Masyaf keys, but no, I don't think so. His son took all the books to Alexandria when Masyaf was abandoned," Desmond says and with some difficulty looks towards Altaïr. "The key he'd holding has some of Altaïr's memories on it, from his last moments, if you want to see him."

"Memories?" Ezio wonders and steps closer to the deceased Master. After his journey it is a strange pain to see Altaïr like this – and at the same time, it is humbling. Altaïr obviously chose his way of ending his life, and he died at some peace.

"The keys to the Library work like your Animus?"

"Sort of, yeah," Desmond agrees. "Except that Altaïr chose what he would leave behind – with genetic memory you get kind of everything."

"I see," Ezio murmurs. "I suppose we should take it with us. It and the Apple. Where are the other keys? The door takes five."

"Istanbul – I mean Constantinople," Desmond explains. "And the Templars have one of them already."

Ezio nods slowly. Not that there is a need to find the keys now that they are already inside the Library – or rather, the Vault – and what is within it is in their grasp. Ezio isn't entirely sure what to do with it – or whether he is disappointed or not.

"I came here searching for wisdom and clarity," he muses, looking at Altaïr. "Old stories spoke of the vast library of knowledge left behind by the great Altaïr, and that is what I hoped to find – books and texts he might have left for future generations to find."

Desmond lowers his eyes a little. "Must be a bit of a disappointment then."

"Perhaps I should have known better than to search the past for answers about the future," Ezio muses and sneezes again. Desmond looks at him with concern and with a sigh, Ezio turns back to the fire, sitting down. "And perhaps you're right – I should rest."

"You should stay warm, too," Desmond murmurs and makes an aborted move towards him. "Do you want me to….?"

"If you are offering, I will certainly not say no," Ezio answers and smiles. "But I am hardly going to die of cold now."

"Better safe than sorry," Desmond says and moves towards him. Now that Ezio's life is no longer on the line, he's more hesitant and awkward, as they arranged themselves on the floor, Ezio between Desmond and the fire. Ezio finds his head resting on Desmond's arm, a position he cannot deny is far more comfortable than resting his head on the stone would have been.

Desmond looks at him and he is a little uneasy now, hardly daring to meet Ezio's eyes even while they stray to his face like drawn there by some force. Understanding the marvel on the younger man's face makes it no less remarkable – only more so.

What a strange thing it is, to be so adored by someone he'd never known or met before. Desmond is so young still and lovely to look at – for him to have set his heart on an old man and one dead for the hundreds of years… it is as sad as it is flattering.

"I'm afraid I am a poor prize, my dear," Ezio murmurs, lifting a hand and stroking this thumb down the Desmond's skin, where the light had drawn lines upon it. There is a hint of stubble there, Desmond had not shaved in a few days, and it makes his skin deceptively rough. It's much softer where the beard doesn't grow.

His lips are soft under the pad of Ezio's thumb, beautifully defined and shapely in ways Ezio knows many women would kill for.

Desmond sighs. "You're really not," he answers shakily. "And, Ezio, really, you don't have to –"

Ezio silences him with his lips. Desmond's lips feel just as lovely as they look like, soft but firm and so easily opening under Ezio's own as he gasps and Ezio presses for advantage. Beneath the shelter of those beautiful lips, Desmond's mouth is warm and wet and sweet enough to quench bit of the thirst Ezio had not realised he was suffering from.

Desmond puts a hand on his cheek, to pull him in or push him away, Ezio doesn't know – Desmond does neither. Instead his fingers curl into Ezio's beard, scraping at the greying stands before sliding through, up, into his hair. The shaky reverence of it makes Ezio all but purr – yes, he could do this, he would even enjoy this greatly –

And then Desmond pulls back, looking fetchingly flushed and embarrassed. He opens his mouth, but no words form, and in the end he only settles for looking away – at the remains of Altaïr.

Ezio strokes his cheek and smiles, letting his head rest on Desmond's arm again. No, being under Altaïr's deathly gaze is hardly the place for amour. But there could be pleasure here, great pleasure, and perhaps even companionship that could go beyond the physical. Yes, he could enjoy this, indeed.

And maybe that would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just want some ~~un~~ complicated slash without 10+ chapters of build up, you know?
> 
> Edit: I was informed this is not uncomplicated, lol


	3. Chapter 3

Ezio wakes slowly to the cold. There is a memory of a body, its warmth still on his front – he can feel the ghost of an impression an arm had left upon his side, but the arm itself is gone. Desmond is no longer there.

The fire has gone out, and the library is quiet, but for a sound of cloth and murmur, soft and apologetic – Desmond speaking Arabic.

"… need it more than you do, now," Desmond murmurs, the Arabic flowing from his lips with the same ease he speaks Florentine Italian with. "I'm sorry – if I can I will make sure you will be buried properly, in proper robes and everything, one day when I have the chance, but…"

Ezio lifts his head and watches as Desmond eases the cloth over Altaïr's skeleton. He's undressed most of it, lying out pieces of greyed, ancient cloth on the floor, piece by piece. Even at a distance Ezio can tell they are remarkably well preserved – sealed in the library, no moth or rat had gotten to them. Robes, hose of sorts, footwear – there is even chainmail there, which still gleams as if freshly polished. Desmond is easing off an under tunic now, the last thing Altaïr is wearing, keeping his eyes down as he attends to his grim task.

Ezio sits up slowly, trying to gauge the time – but there are no windows in the Library, no openings, nothing to tell what time it might be outside. What light there is is dim and vague, and it seems to come from no source Ezio can see.

"It's been about three hours," Desmond says in Italian, holding Altaïr's head with one hand tenderly while he eases the cloth off. "I think it's still night out – I haven't heard much moving outside the door."

"Good," Ezio says and stands up, glancing over the fire. It is down to cinders now, and nowhere near hot enough to offer much warmth. "With any luck my robes might still be outside that door," he says. "They might even be dry by now. You needn't rob Altaïr of his."

"If you don't want to wear them, then I will. It's still cold out and I'm not dressed for it either," Desmond says and reaches forward to press a kiss on Altaïr's forehead, saying, "Thank you, Altaïr," again in Arabic, before murmuring, "Requiescat in Pace."

Ezio looks at him, wondering about how deep a bond might be developed in that Animus of his, before looking away, towards the library door. Stretching out the kinks in his body, he makes his way towards it and tries to listen, to see, anything. The door is thick and heavy, but now that he is on this side, he can see the opening mechanisms – they glimmer golden under his Gift.

"Have you found any weapons?" Ezio asks without much hope.

"Altaïr had some throwing knifes – here," Desmond says and lifts a belt with a set of ten knives on it. "That's something, right? He's also got his hidden blade, but he still used the old design, so…"

"The old design?" Ezio asks and then remembers, "Ah," he says and clenches his hand into a fist in sympathy.

"Yeah. Probably better we leave it here," Desmond agrees. "Won't you take any of his clothes? You're still pretty pale."

"I feel much better now, thank you," Ezio says, though he really does not – he feels worse. There is a persistent ache in his back and waist and his head feels stuffed full of wool – he can already feel the beginnings of sniffles, stuffing up his nose. The next week or so would not be fun. "I will trust in the hope that my own robes are still there – there is little reason for the Templar to shift them, except to perhaps move them out of the way."

And if they weren't there, he'd rather kill Templars and steal their clothes, than wear the clothes of the dead Master. Oddly, though the idea makes his own skin crawl… the concept of Desmond wearing them does not prompt the same reaction.

Whether Desmond finds the idea upsetting is hard to say – he simply shakes his head and pulls off his thin dark shirt. Without hesitation he then begins pulling the robes on, wearing them like they were made for him despite the possible height difference between him and the old master. Desmond is really quite tall, and Altaïr had always came across to Ezio as being on the smaller side of men. Then again, Desmond is also rather thin.

Ezio watches the young man dress himself into the clothes of the dead master and then goes to inspect Altaïr's throwing knives. They are much like his own – Ezio takes half of them, testing their edges and then tucking most of them to the waistband of his hose, taking the last two and holding them in one hand.

"You can fight, I assume?" Ezio asks, as Desmond ties a faded sash around his waist and then pulls the old master's cowl on.

Desmond puts the discus Altaïr was holding into one of the many pouches on his belt. "I can fight. And if it comes down to it…" he turns to look at the Apple of Eden.

"Yes," Ezio agrees. "It is quite the weapon. I would rather it did not see use tonight, however – the Templars would surely hunt us to the ends of the Earth if they knew we had it."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and after checking Altaïr's belts and buckles, he grabs the discarded shirt from the floor and walks to the Apple. He'd opted against taking Altaïr's boots, Ezio notes – they must have not fit him, and so he still wears his strange footwear from the future.

Desmond folds the shirt over and then forms it into a sack, putting the Apple within it and then tying it up. The Apple thus disappears into Altaïr's satchels, its mysterious light smothered in cloth and leather. Then Desmond turns to look at him, one of his eyes hidden under the fold of Altaïr's cowl and, ah… Ezio sees now why it does not bother him to see Desmond wear the robes.

Not only do they suit him, but he looks like Altaïr reborn in them. Of course, the closest depiction of Altaïr Ezio has ever seen was a statue in the sanctuary under the Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni, with no knowing how accurate to life it was… but he likes to think the similarity was marked – and Desmond matches it almost perfectly.

"What?" Desmond asks, wary.

"You look like him," Ezio comments.

Curiously, Desmond doesn't seem surprised, nor does he for a moment mistake the sentiment for Ezio talking only about the clothes – he only looks down a little and then smiles wryly. "Yeah," he agrees and glances at the dead master, still sitting on the chair where he died. "It's pretty freaky, isn't it?"

Not the word Ezio would use. "Come here," Ezio says and tilts his head a little as Desmond ducks his chin again, a hint of red rising to his cheeks. He comes, though, and his whole posture is different now – he moves no longer with a slight slouch, but at a stalk.

Like a true Assassin, Ezio thinks, looking up as Desmond stands in front of him.

"You should at least take the cowl," Desmond says. "You're still –"

He falls quiet when Ezio touches him with curious interest, taking his chin in hand and turning it slightly. He had seen handsome men and beautiful women in Assassin's regalia before, and he is no stranger to the effect it can have on people. He uses it _often_ himself. There is a strange edge of a thrill and danger to a person dressed to kill.

Desmond looks very well in the robes of the old master. Very well indeed. How would he look in the robes of the Assassins of Rome? Or in Ezio's own new, darker robes? Or perhaps robes of a whole new design, one tailored to his long, slim form?

Ezio has rarely felt the urge to clothe someone, but he thinks he would like to see Desmond draped in rich silk and lace.

Desmond himself doesn't seem to share the appreciation for his own outlooks. "The cape at least – " he says and then goes quiet again as Ezio presses fingers to his lips.

"If my clothes are not in the chamber beyond, then I will accept what you offer," Ezio says. "But I would not wear those clothes, Desmond. It is not my place."

"You think it's mine?" Desmond asks incredulously. "You're a Mentor, for Christ's sake, you're more worthy than I am."

"I did not know Altaïr, I only know him by story and by his writing," Ezio says, looking Desmond up and down and trailing his hand over the chest of Altaïr's robes. "And though I have tried to follow some of his teachings, I have invented many more that were my own. These robes suit you, Desmond – I do not think I could bear the weight."

"Bullshit," Desmond mutters. "You think they smell, don't you?"

"Yes," Ezio agrees and chuckles at the look the younger man gives him. "But I mean what I say – they look… good on you."

Desmond looks delightfully embarrassed at that, and Ezio is tempted to urge the embarrassment into a full blush, but – the night wears on. "Are you ready to fight?" Ezio asks, trailing his hand down from Desmond's chest to his waist. "There will surely be soldiers behind that door, we must take them down before they can call for reinforcements."

Desmond sways towards him and then away. "Yes," he agrees. "Let's do it."

Together they take stand on each side of the door, with Desmond looking to Ezio and then, at his nod, triggering the door to open again. Immediately the noise of it causes alarm outside – shouts, weapons being drawn. Ezio looks with his Gift and then, knowing that timing is important, he crouches and slides under the slowly opening door. Desmond, he's gratified to find, follows almost immediately after.

There are four guards – and a fifth, running through the waterlogged hall beyond, no doubt running to alert more Templars. Desmond sets out after him, vaulting over one alarmed Templar and leaving a knife in the man's throat before dashing forward like an attack dog. Ezio lets him have it, and deals away with the remaining three – he takes out the closest with a sharp swipe across the throat before dancing under a blow by a mace and sticking one of Altaïr's throwing knives into the man's gut. The last man hesitates, alarmed, too slow, and Ezio takes him out with another knife, which stays imbedded in the man's gut as he falls.

Across the hall Desmond takes the fleeing Templar at a leap, like a great cat, and takes him down, knife sinking to the man's back with all the weight of his body, ending the man's life without hesitation.

They pause then, Desmond crouched over the body and Ezio surrounded by the dead, listening. Silence. The alarm had not gone out – the Templars had not been in time to give warning.

Ezio looks back to the Library door, and watches with mixed feelings as it opens all the way up… and then begins closing again, immediately after. Desmond joins him and together they watch as the great and empty Library of Altaïr closes itself once more with finality.

"End of the road," Ezio murmurs.

"Your clothes, I think they're over there," Desmond nods.

Ezio turns and indeed, there are his robes, thrown into a pile not far from the door – his robe, his cowl, even his weapons are there, thrust aside like so much rabble. Well, it is not as if he had much there – some armour, his bracers. The Templars had already stripped him of most of his weapons – the most he had was one functioning hidden blade, one broken one, and a sword.

The clothes are far from warm – but Ezio is thrilled to find they are mostly dry. Luck would have it that they had been pushed near where there is a torch pitched up, and its heat must have done most of the work – and thankfully the Templars had not discarded his clothes into an icy puddle of water.

Still – Ezio keeps Desmond's strange doublet, pulling his own clothes over it - it offers a head start in warming the rest of his clothes up.

Desmond guards the hall as he dresses and only looks back as Ezio approaches him, pulling his own, darker hood up again. The younger man's lips part slightly and Ezio smiles at the look of blatant admiration he's being given, until Desmond catches himself and clears his throat, awkward once more. "Better?" he asks

"Yes, much better," Ezio agrees, amused, and looks down to one of the downed guards. "Still," he murmurs and crouches down. "I do believe we need some gloves." And some coin too, and whatever else valuable there is in the Templar's pouches.

Desmond looks at him, then down to his own bare hands and, in obvious agreement, he goes to riffle through the belongings of the other bodies. He comes away with roughly made gloves – as well as a sword and a dagger, which after testing their edges he adds to his gear.

Ezio rubs his gloved hands together and looks at Desmond. "Question now is, what shall we do next?" he comments. "The Templar lieutenant was said to have a book which might guide him to the Masyaf keys. But…"

He looks to the library door. Desmond follows his gaze. All that was valuable there, Desmond has now in his pouches – there is nothing left in the library, but a skeleton and empty shelves. And as they had gone into the Library and gotten out again, the Templars might feel as though they don't even need the keys – they might just come after them.

"We don't need the book, Ezio," Desmond says. "I know where the Keys are."

"Ah. Of course," Ezio agrees. Desmond had lived through these times, though him – though future would change now, in minor ways, that much would still stay the same. "Are the keys usable in other ways, other than as the way to open the Library? Do they, like the Apple, have powers?"

"They are still Precursor technology, so yes, probably. And they do have some of Altaïr's memories stored in them, if you want to know it," Desmond says. "They might have other stuff in them too – honestly, what Altaïr added to them wasn't… all that much."

He takes out the key he took form Altaïr, turning it in his hand. It shimmers faintly with golden light. "These things can store a lot of information," Desmond says, turning the discus in hand. "Altaïr only included small moments of his life in them – it's nowhere near as much as these things can hold."

"Hmm," Ezio hums in agreement, eying the thing. "They are too much of a risk to be left in Templar hands, then. I believe we should go after them. What else is there in Istanbul, anything I should know?"

Desmond hesitates and then looks away, the hood falling to his eyes.

"Desmond?" Ezio asks, stepping closer.

"There's a woman there who was – could be – your wife," the young man says quietly. "You eventually had children with her."

Ezio frowns a little, eying the younger man's face.

Desmond clears his throat. "And the Assassins of Istanbul – they have a presence in the city, but they're not the Brotherhood of Rome," Desmond says. "The Ottoman Empire is on the verge of power change – the Sultan is old and it makes the city unstable. The Assassins there could use the Mentor's guidance, to be honest, to chase the Templars from the city."

Ezio steps closer to him, watching him curiously. "And yet a woman who could be my wife is the thing you mention first?" he asks, and with the back of his fingers moves Desmond's hood aside enough to see his eyes. "Are you jealous, my dear?" he asks quietly.

"Not really my place. I shouldn't even be here," Desmond says and rolls his eyes. "We should probably get a move on."

"Hmm," Ezio answers and turns the man's face towards his. "Do you not wish to go, then? Leave Altaïr's keys in the hands of Templar and simply move on from this place?"

"Are you guilt tripping me?" Desmond asks incredulously.

"I am asking honestly," Ezio says. "What do you want to do, Desmond?"

Desmond looks at him, his eyes flickering with faint inner light and then he looks at the site of Templar excavation. "I want Templars out of this place, but that's… probably not going to be possible, not as long as they think they have something to gain from this place," he murmurs. "We should go to Istanbul, get the Keys and stop the Templars."

Ezio studies his face and then kisses the side of his cheek, soft and slow. "It's a long way to Istanbul," he murmurs suggestively. "Long by sea and longer by land… months on the road, easily. Anything can happen in such a time, my darling."

Desmond shudders a little against him, his hand gripping at Ezio's wrist where Ezio is touching his waist. "Ezio, really – you don't have to – "

"Oh, dearest," Ezio purrs directly into his ear. "I _want_ to. But now," he looks up, at the sound of distant voices. "I believe we should begin making our way out of here."

Desmond shudders again and looks towards the voices. "Yes," he agrees and draws a breath. "Right. We should go, yeah."

Oh, flustered truly is a beautiful look on the man.

Ezio turns his face to his own and presses his lips on Desmond's before the young man has the chance to recover, and drinks the slightest _whine_ that escapes Desmond's lips, leaning into the uncertain sway of Desmond's body. Even with all the cloth in between them now, he feels beautiful, firm and yielding all at once, leaning in while arching away. The needy uncertainty of it is intoxicating and oh, if only there was time….

" _Ezio_ – " Desmond complains against his mouth, gripping his wrists to pull his hands away.

Ezio grins against his complaining lips. "For luck," he says, not even pretending innocence. Then, before the temptation can claim him, he moves past Desmond, checking his hidden blade as he goes. Still functional. Good.

Behind him, Desmond lets out a _gloriously_ frustrated groan, and then stalks after him.

* * *

 

There are many Templars in the Masyaf castle – they have all but settled in now, it turns out, having lit fires in the still viable rooms and formed camps inside the halls, with tents and furs and cooking fires. Desmond obviously finds this to be an insult of some severity, not that Ezio can't say the sight brings much joy to him either. The birthplace of their order – or at least the place where it was reborn into its better form… despoiled by Templar presence.

There is no need to even talk about it – Ezio and Desmond move with a single mind, to eliminate the threats and the infestation in their ancestral home. Desmond, Ezio is delighted to find, is very skilled indeed, dispensing death and punishment without hesitation or fault, each move perfect and well executed. Were he one of Ezio's own assassins, he would have promoted him for the first few kills alone. Surely he must be a Master Assassin in his own time, if not more.

Ezio does his best to keep up, but it is obvious very fast that Desmond, being younger and in better health, has easier time of it, so Ezio bows to the inevitable and lets the younger Assassin take the lead, keeping pace with him but leaving most of the kills in his hands. It gives him time to look around, and like that, he spots the Templar Lieutenant – a golden figure, glimpsed through the gaps in the baluster in the higher level – he looks over the railing, sees the carnage, and then begins shouting.

"Assassins! Assassins! Sound the alarm – the Assassins are here!"

Ezio takes great pleasure in silencing his howl with the last of Altaïr's throwing knives, before taking a pillar at a run and then climbing up to the second floor of the castle's main hall. There is an office of some kind there – ah, it must be the office of the Mentor of the Masyaf Castle. Altaïr's office. There are bookshelves there, some even with books on them, as well as the desk in a place of honour in the middle, in front of a large window overlooking the mountains.

The Templar lieutenant had made Altaïr's office his own, the wretch.

"And here we thought you had choked on your own air and died in the library chamber," Leandros snarls, his hand on the knife imbedded in his shoulder. "How did you get inside, you old bastard? Tell me and I might spare your life."

"What is in that library is not for you, not for the Templars," Ezio says and draws his sword.

"You mean old books? Keep them, we care not of Assassins' writings," the Templar says and spits. "I will make a pyre of them an burn your body upon them."

Ezio narrows his eyes. "If it's not the knowledge you seek, then what?" Did they know about the Apple, is that what they are after?

"I will tell you, once I am done _killing_ you!"

Leandros attacks then, and Ezio parries, moving past the clumsy blow and deflecting another with his sword. From the corner of his eye Ezio can see Desmond going through the remaining Templars, like a pale grey ghost of Altaïr, cleansing his castle from invaders. Yes, Ezio muses – Desmond was right. Now he too doubts Altaïr would mind the loan of his robes for this task. It is quite the sight.

The Templar lieutenant attacks again, clumsy with pain and fury, and Ezio runs him through with his sword without mercy before sending the man on the floor.

"Tell me," he orders with the force of the Gift. "What is it that Templars seek here? What is it that you know of the Library of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?"

Leandros spits blood at him. "How did you get inside?" he demands. "The book says – you need keys – the library was supposed to remain sealed until the keys were inserted. How did you do it, old man?"

Ezio doesn't answer, crouching by the man. "I was allowed in," he says. "What is it that you seek in the library?"

The Templar laughs. "If you need to ask, then you obviously… did not find it…"

"I found many things," Ezio says quietly. "A Piece of Eden. A Key to the door. A man from the future. Two gods, long dead. A destiny I thought already over for my part. A future I might yet enjoy. What I don't know is which of these you seek."

The Templar stares blearily at him. "The Grand Temple," he then chokes out. "Did you – were the directions for it there?"

"Ah, so that is it, then," Ezio says and smiles, letting his hidden blade shriek out. "That is all I need from you. Gratias tibi, inimice. Requiescat in pace."

Desmond vaults himself up to the second floor baluster just as Ezio closes the Templar Lieutenant's eyes. "I think we're all clear," he says. "Get anything out of him?"

"They are looking for the Grand Temple," Ezio comments, moving over Leandros and towards the desk. There are files open there, papers, scrolls – a book. "I assume they cannot get in there, seeing as it was left for you and you alone."

"You make it sound grander than it was – but no, they can't get in," Desmond agrees and drops down from the baluster, looking around in the open office, strange look on his face. "You need another Key and your Apple of Eden – the one you hid in Rome. And… yeah, you need me too, I guess."

"Not a concern for us, either way," Ezio muses and takes the book. "Hmm… I think this is the book they meant to use to find the keys." He looks the book over curiously – it's a journal of some kind, written mostly in Italian. "Interesting."

Desmond says nothing, looking away – watching nothing. Ezio glances him and then puts the book away. "Desmond?"

"Hmh?" Desmond hums, turning his head but not moving his gaze. Then he seems to snap out of it and shakes his head. "Sorry," he says, awkward. "Old ghosts."

Ezio arches his brows. "You have the ability to see things that have passed as well?" he asks curiously. "It took me nearly thirty years to develop the talent."

"Um, no – I just. Memories," Desmond says awkwardly and shakes head. "I see Altaïr's memories – I can see people who he knew, who worked here. It's not… exactly the same."

"Is it a problem?" Ezio asks mildly.

"Shouldn't be, once we get out of here. This place is just bringing it out a lot more than I'm used to," Desmond admits and looks away. "I'm, uh. I'm going to grab some armour for me. And maybe that guy's cape – turns out Altaïr's robes aren't that warm, after all."

Ezio arches his brows as Desmond vaults over the baluster again, and drops out of sight and to the hall below. "Very well then," he says, thoughtful, and looks down to the Templar lieutenant. The man is wearing some impressive Byzantine armour, but nothing Ezio could actually use.

Shaking his head, Ezio turns to make his way down to the lower floor – though he takes the stairs instead of simply dropping down. His back hurts, and now that the action is over, he can feel again the oncoming cold.

A cape, he muses, would not go amiss for him either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unexpected double chapter dayyy


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, smut

"I read many texts concerning this area, Altaïr's own writing above all," Ezio muses while hiding by the fire as Desmond prepared the hare he caught for their dinner. "Of all the dangers and wondrous things they told about – this cold wasn't one of them. I was led to believe this area would be much warmer than this."

"It's a cold time period," Desmond agrees, expertly ridding the hare of its fur with a knife ill equipped for the task of butchery. "Back in my time we call it the Little Ice Age, because of how far the temperatures dropped. And I think you got the bad luck of choosing a particularly cold winter to travel."

"Little Ice Age? You make it sound like there was a big one," Ezio says, watching his work.

"There was, a couple, I think," Desmond says, easing the skin off and then setting it aside. "With glaciers that covered most of northern Europe at least. Wasn't really something I ever studied, though, sorry. That kind of history was not that important to us. In either case, this area was warmer in Altaïr's time."

"Unlucky for us," Ezio says and then turns his head as a bout of coughs takes him.

The cold had fully set in as they had left Masyaf behind. They are still high on the mountainside, and the weather has not grown any warmer – in fact, it was worse. And making their way down the mountains on foot, it looks like they'll be suffering the cold some time longer. Ordinarily this wouldn't be an issue, but personally Ezio wasn't up for scaling mountains while suffering a fever and stuffed up nose.

Truly, he must be a sight to behold.

Desmond cuts the meat apart into strips and then sets them to cook by the fire on thin sticks he'd snapped off from nearby bushes. "It won't be the best tasting food, but it'll save us some of the rations," he says and then comes to join Ezio on the log he sits on.

Ezio opens the shelter of combined capes, and Desmond joins him within, bringing momentary cold with him and then blissful warmth. Ezio sighs into it, and had Desmond not turned to gather him in, he might have given up any pretense of pride and crawled into the man's lap.

"You seem to handle yourself well in cold," Ezio hums, sneaking his fingers into Desmond's side and smiling at his squirming.

"I come from a colder region," Desmond agrees. "We can't all be spoiled rich kids from Florence."

"I was hardly spoiled," Ezio grumbles.

"Of course not," Desmond laughs, wrapping his arm around his back and holding him close. "Are you feeling any better?"

"No, I feel worse," Ezio sighs and presses his face into the man's shoulder. "I require a great deal of care and comfort, before I wither away."

Desmond tsks. "So the smoulder goes out the window when you get sick? Good to know you have an off button, after all."

"I do not understand a word you are saying."

Desmond makes an amused sound at that and rubs his back. "Maybe we should have stayed in Masyaf," he says. "The people there wouldn't have minded housing us a few days until you felt better, I'm sure "

After they had dismantled most of the Templar presence in the town, no, the people wouldn't have minded at all. Ezio had not been feeling this poorly then, though, and had opted against it, thinking it would be warmer once they got down from the mountains. Only they had not yet gotten down from the mountains, and the Templars on the road had forced them to the shepherds' paths along the mountainside, which will not make the track any faster. It would be another day at least until they make it down.

Ezio is not making a very good showing of himself, is he?

"It will be fine," he says. "A few days and I'll be better – I never stay sick for long."

"You better not," Desmond murmurs, leaning his head against Ezio's and then tugging the cape Ezio is all but swaddled in higher over his neck.

If nothing else, the excuse to touch is appreciated, Ezio muses and presses a little closer. He's not so cold now, but… Desmond is just there, within easy reach. How can he not get closer? "My worried darling," he murmurs. "So caring."

Desmond makes a noise and then startles a little as Ezio gropes around his waist. "Okay, never mind about the off button – Ezio, you're _sick._ "

"Then help me feel better," Ezio murmurs to his ear, pressing a kiss below it. "You are so warm, my dear, share some of your warmth with me –"

"Christ – _Ezio!_ " Desmond yelps as Ezio's fingers accidentally slide between his legs under the folds of his robes and the capes. Though he protests and squirms, Ezio can feel him twitch in answer, his body more eager than his mind.

"Don't," Desmond breathes, inching away.

Ezio hums and puts his hand on the younger man's thigh instead – he'd only meant to tease, not cause discomfort. "Forgive me," he murmurs and kisses Desmond's neck again, apologetic, before lifting his head. "I never intended to make you uncomfortable –"

Desmond puts a hand over his chin before Ezio can kiss him on the mouth. "You're going to get us both sick, you old horn dog," he grumbles in embarrassment, pushing Ezio's head back a little. "Give it a rest, at least until there's a warm house around or something."

"Oh?" Ezio asks against his palm and then lifts a hand to move it, kissing Desmond fingers tenderly before pushing them away. "Then it is only the cold you protest?"

"I protest you being sick" Desmond answers and gives him a look. "And making it _worse._ "

Ezio hums, working his arm back under the cloaks and winding it around Desmond's waist. "I had begun to wonder, dearest – you look at me with such desire and then turn away. Any man would worry."

"You of all people don't need an ego boost in this," Desmond mutters, embarrassed

"Ah, but everyone enjoys compliments and admiration, darling," Ezio murmurs, smiling. "And there is nothing quite as lovely as being desired."

Desmond says nothing, looking away and letting out a frustrated sigh. Ezio watches him, wondering. The young man had seen him in his younger years, knowing him at his prime. As much an advantage as experience gives him, Ezio knows his strongest years are behind him and though many have told him he's aging very finely indeed… he is still aging. And perhaps Desmond would have preferred a younger man.

Old horn dog indeed… Whatever that is supposed to mean.

Ezio hums and leaves it be, resting a moment in Desmond's warmth but nothing more. It is nice enough, and he is still sick after all.

After a moment Desmond's hand returns to his side and he sighs. "I do want you," Desmond murmurs. "You make it really hard not to, but – _fuck_ , Ezio. If you're only doing this because of what Minerva and Jupiter said –"

Ezio blinks and then arches his brows. "Rarely one gets godly permission for sodomy," he comments and smiles at the nearly horrified look Desmond gives him. "My dearest, you are _very_ desirable and it is not often that such opportunities present themselves so readily to me."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Desmond asks warily.

"I was your dying wish, no?"

Desmond looks away at that. "You shouldn't feel obligated –"

"Darling, no one feels flattered out of obligation," Ezio tells him and pulls him closer, turning his face towards his own. "I assure you, this is not an obligation. As I said – it's lovely to be desired."

Desmond hesitates, looking like he wants to say something. Then he shakes his head and turns to look at the fire. So uncertain, so hesitant.

"Were I feeling better and the weather kinder to us, I would show you the full extent of my own desire, for it is quite sizable," Ezio murmurs hotly in his ear. "I would lay you down bare upon your robes and –"

" _Okay,_ I get it, stop it," Desmond almost gasps, squirming away, and he's distracted enough that Ezio manages to turn his face and capture his lips in a kiss. Desmond moans, half in objection, but answers it in kind, leaning in and gripping tightly at the fabric of Ezio's robes.

"If you get me sick, I'm dumping your ass in some mountain valley and continuing on my own," Desmond groans, even as one of his arms winds around Ezio's neck.

Ezio grins at this empty threat and pushes closer, and for all of his objections, Desmond turns to him and makes him space. And oh, he is quite affected indeed – perhaps by Ezio's very voice alone. It tends to have that effect on some.

"I could bring you to completion without either one of us needing to shift our clothes or suffer the cold," Ezio suggests, pitching his voice intentionally low while sliding his knee between Desmond legs and applying tender pressure. "Have you writhing with pleasure without a hint of skin on display, helpless and –"

"Don't you _dare,_ " Desmond groans but pulls him into a needy kiss, his fingers gripping at Ezio's hood while he mouths at his beard. "I am not continuing on with dirty undies – Jesus _Christ,_ Ezio –"

The hare ends up mildly burned, but the company makes it a sweet meal indeed. The next morning Desmond complains of a sore throat, but, Ezio finds with some amusement, the blame of it isn't placed entirely on him, after all.

* * *

 

The next day they find what looks like an abandoned farmhouse in a valley – abandoned no doubt because the frost had killed the orchard it was adjacent to. The snow isn't so bad here, at least, but the nearby well is still frozen and so are the dead plants and grasses in the area, cracking and crinkling underfoot as they investigate the farmhouse.

Though locked up, the place had wood for burning and a decent fireplace inside – and while not built for the temperatures the area is suffering of, with a fire it would still be warmer than spending another night outdoors.

"It might not be unwise to spend a few days in here while we recover," Ezio admits. Though Desmond isn't as badly sick as he is, the young man too is feeling a little under the weather now, and the traveling is getting more arduous with both of them poorly. "Perhaps in a few days the cold will pass."

"You'll get no arguments from me," Desmond says, sighing. "Let's get a fire going."

They spend some times trying to block the glass-less windows to keep the chill from creeping back in before Desmond breaks the frost layer in the well with a rock and then brings in water. Thankfully, whoever the farmhouse belonged to had not taken everything in it with them when they'd left and there are still some pots left for heating the water and for cooking. There's even blankets and pillows for bedding down.

"We can stay in some comfort here, it seems," Ezio muses.

"Yeah," Desmond says, stripping off his extra layers and then considering Altaïr's robes. "Hmm. If it gets warm enough here, I think I might wash these."

"I think we should look forward to cleaning ourselves first," Ezio muses, giving Desmond a considering look. "Did you by any chance see a basin for washing anywhere in here?"

"There's an actual bathing room," Desmond says. "It's no hammam maybe, but it's tiled and clean. Looks like whoever owns this place is pretty well-to-do."

"Excellent – something to look forward to."

They rest that day, eating their meagre food supplies and planning their stay in the house. There is no way to heat all of the house, so they would be staying in the main area where the fireplace is, setting the gathered things down by it and staying near while doing what they can to maintain their gear.

"Shouldn't be long until we're down from the mountain side," Desmond muses while patching up Altaïr's robes to the best of his ability – he'd found a needle and thread somewhere in the house, it seems. "Should be warmer then."

"Yes – and there will be more people around," Ezio says. "Settlements, inns – taverns. Or the local equivalent, at least."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and sets the needle down. "Do we have money for that?"

"I have some and can gather funds wherever we need them, that is no concern," Ezio says. "It is only the Templar presence that concerns me. The area is infested by bandits and mercenaries besides, looking for travelers to profit from."

"Nothing we can't handle," Desmond says.

"Perhaps not," Ezio muses. "Still, it is a concern we must keep in mind as we continue forward."

"Duly noted," Desmond agrees.

Ezio watches him a moment longer until Desmond looks up warily. "What?" he asks.

Ezio smiles, pushing his hood down. Desmond's eyes flicker to his hair and roam on his face almost as if against his will, a stolen appreciative glance.

"It seems," Ezio says, pitching his voice low, "that we have a warm house to use, now. We even have bedding," he comments.

Desmond looks at him and then lifts his head sharply, realising his meaning. "Um," he says, his eyes widening, his pupils flaring.

"No risk of further cold," Ezio purrs, unclasping the buckles of his blade.

"You're still sick," Desmond objects, but it's feeble at best – the sewing lays forgotten on his lap, and when Ezio moves to open the belts around his waist, the inhale Desmond draws quivers.

"I assure you, I am feeling _much_ better," Ezio tells him – which in truth, he is.

"Um," Desmond says again and offers the last token protest, "Maybe once we've gotten the chance to bathe – we're both travel dirty and –"

Ezio lets the belts fall to the floor.

Desmond draws a breath, and whatever qualms he has are finally brought low and broken. "Oh, fuck it," he whispers, reverent, and abandons the robes he was mending in favour of coming to Ezio. And oh, how he comes, all but crawling to him, a supplicant approaching a master, humble and borderline worshipful.

Ezio had looked forward to the build up of pleasure – but the sight of Desmond on his knees is breathtaking enough to cut it short. The man doesn't even try to strive for advantage over him, doesn't even stand, though the height difference between then might give him an upper hand – he rises to his knees instead, reaching for Ezio, and it's _lovely._

Ezio takes his head between his hands, running his fingers into the short cropped hair. "Why do you restrain yourself so from something you so obviously want?" he asks quietly. "I am right here – I welcome your pleasure, I want it."

Desmond leans into his hands, already flushed with desire. "I don't get to have something like you," he admits with a feeble laugh and closes his eyes under Ezio's fingers. "Going by experience. I don't get nice things."

"Ah," Ezio murmurs. Not an issue of age then, but of worth of self. What a problem for a man who saved the world to have. Though considering the method was not that of bravery or strength but that of self sacrifice… "Am I not a human rather than a thing to be given or gained?" Ezio asks quietly. "Do my own desires not matter?"

"Of course they do," Desmond sighs, bowing his head guiltily.

"Then stand up, my darling, and kiss me," Ezio says and gently pulls him up by his chin. "We are neither of us slaves or things, not gods or worshippers. We are Assassins. Stand up."

Desmond seems to almost quiver, as he shakily rises to his feet, led by Ezio's hands. The young man is beautifully affected now, trembling with need and desire, still hesitant but no longer uncertain of his welcome at least.

"You are beautiful, my dear," Ezio whispers. "And I desire you very much indeed. Forget the words of bygone gods – for I know desire, and this one I own."

"Ezio," Desmond sighs and with a gentle hands Ezio pulls him into a kiss. It's not quite the temperament he envisioned for this, but Desmond has been coy and uncertain, and if it is affirmation he desires, Ezio can give it in plenty.

"I will not deny that what Minerva and Jupiter spoke of is that which sparked this, I would have not known it to be a possibility without it," he whispers, teasing Desmond's belts open. "But the journey is ours, no matter who opened the door for us – and my dearest, I would very much like to explore your body now."

Desmond groans at that, "How can you say stuff like that without sounding sappy?" he demands, swaying.

"It's all in the tone of voice, my dear," Ezio smiles and purrs directly into his ear, "Now, let's get rid of these, shall we?" while tugging at Desmond's clothes.

Desmond all but whimpers at that, and lets Ezio strip him, tugging at Ezio's robes between articles of his own clothes being removed. Ezio is in no hurry though, taking his sweet time with each bit of bared skin. Though he'd seen much of it before, he hasn't been given a leeway to touch – and it is a pleasing experience on its own, to touch and have that touch appreciated.

Desmond is very smooth all over, not quite unblemished but certainly not scared anywhere near the extent Ezio is. The most marked part of him are his arms, one tattooed and other touched by the magic of Those That Came Before. Past them his body is like satin over steel, soft, faintly hair covered skin over long, flat muscles that feel like iron.

Ezio feels him all over, running his palms over Desmond's waist and sides, up his back and down, enjoying the difference of his own, weapon-calloused and age-marked hand over all that unblemished, near untouched flesh. Parts of Desmond feel so smooth as to feel virginal – like freshly finished blade, smooth and glowing and deadly.

Desmond is breathing a little harder as Ezio settles his hands on his tightly muscled backside. The height difference makes it nearly impossible to not grope him thus – the angle is too perfect. Desmond looms over him, a few inches taller than him, almost leaning on him – and then, needy, the younger man begins ridding Ezio of his clothes as well.

Ezio's body is nothing like Desmond's, he knows. Though paler in some places, it's darker in others – marked by scars and blemishes, wounds that didn't heal properly and bruises that left permanent dark patches. He is markedly hairier than Desmond is as well, and the slight greying here and there doesn't make it any less apparent.

And Desmond, quite obviously, finds the sight of him very pleasing indeed, running his fingers greedily over Ezio's chest, first up and then down. Whatever hesitation he had left is all gone now – his fingers are boldly appreciative as they follow the trail of hair down, past Ezio's stomach and lower still.

"Beautiful," Ezio murmurs and kisses him, slow and wet and without hurry, while Desmond breathes raggedly and grips Ezio slowly and carefully in his right hand, testing the girth and sizing him up against his palm. Ezio thrusts his hips lazily into his grip and then tightens his hold on Desmond's buttocks, pulling him in. Here the height difference works against them – until it doesn't. Ezio slides a thigh between Desmond's legs and finds himself similarly pinned, and with a twist of his hips, he gives them both a surface to push against.

"Oh fuck," Desmond groans, gripping at Ezio's hips and thrusting against him.

Ezio grins against his neck and then kisses it, licking a line up a tendon and murmuring to his ear, "Easy, darling, we have all night."

Desmond thrusts against him once and then leans his head back, sighing. Ezio watches him and then guides him into a brief rhythm, enjoying its effects on Desmond's younger body, as it tightens, tension building. He's already hard against Ezio's hip, and aroused enough to drip.

Ezio hums, appreciative, and pulls him in, applying pressure with his thigh and leaning up to seek the younger man's shapely lips, claiming the breathless groan for his own.

Desmond is quite young. There is a very good chance Ezio could bring him over his peak now and he could recover for another. Perhaps even a third, is he puts some effort to it.

Sliding his fingers down and into the valley of Desmond's buttocks, Ezio finds a hot, tender bit of skin to rub his fingers against, humming appreciatively as Desmond's whole body jolts. Desmond moans, stunned, his hands automatically coming to grip Ezio's wrists as with one hand Ezio spreads his cheeks apart, exposing that centre of heat to the cooler air, to gain more space to explore and test.

Should Desmond find the touch unpleasant, he would stop – but Ezio really rather hopes he does not.

"Christ," Desmond gasps, glancing backwards as if he could see what Ezio is doing to him, but of course he can't. Though he's holding both of Ezio's wrists now, he's not pulling his hands away. "What happened to foreplay?" He sounds stunned and not at all displeased.

"Do I seem like a man who plays?" Ezio wonders, tracing his fingers over the bared territory, looking for places that bring the greatest reaction. Desmond squirms when he circles his entrance, but he thrusts when Ezio presses his fingertips into the soft flesh beyond it, letting out a startled moan.

Ezio hums in pleasure against Desmond's throat, doing everything in his power to gain a reaction, pushing, prodding, rubbing, while murmuring low in Desmond ear, "Oh dearest, you like this, don't you? And went to such lengths to deny yourself, what a terrible pity. Am I the first one to touch you like this? I hope not, for you are a lovely sight like this and I am greatly going to enjoy fucking you – but not quite as much as I think you will enjoy being fucked –"

He eases one dry fingertip into the tight clench of Desmond's entrance and with a strangled cry the young man thrusts against his thigh, his whole body tightening in pleasure as he comes in shuddering bursts against Ezio's hip and thigh, painting his skin in pearly strains.

Ezio holds him through his release, easing his fingertip in and out until the young man is done, enjoying the sound of his voice until it can form words again.

"Holy shit," Desmond gasps, his skin prickled in gooseflesh, his whole body shuddering while Ezio circles his now even tighter entrance, smiling.

"Darling, I am going to enjoy this very much indeed," he purrs and takes Desmond slack, panting mouth in a victorious kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, more smut

In a rare turn of events, Desmond is still asleep the next Ezio wakes. They had opted not to sit on watch, both needing their rest and the location being so far removed and long abandoned that the likelihood of Templars finding them is fairly slim.  The morning thus dawns quietly and calmly, with Desmond still lying on the bedding, his eyes shut, his face peaceful.

Ezio takes a moment to watch him, wondering. The night had been an immensely enjoyable one, the likes of which he had not had in nearly a year now, not since he left Rome for his quest for Masyaf. He had sworn then not to get… distracted by vices, and he had not. In Acre there had been opportunities, of course, but the temptation these days wasn't as severe as it used to be – and though he doubts he would ever be a man to turn down offered pleasure and passion, his own passions had… cooled of late.

Desmond had sparked something he thought he might have finally grown beyond, and the sight of him, peaceful, defenceless and with nary a thing on him, threatens to rekindle that spark once more. Ezio is not a stranger to being admired, but there is a timbre to Desmond's adoration that hits a chord with him. A desperation that smacks of… death, more than anything.

He thinks that maybe what Desmond feels for him is something like what he had once felt for Cristina Vespucci, a lifetime and a whole different man ago. Ezio had buried a portion of his heart with her – and sometimes Desmond looks at him like maybe he did something similar with Ezio.

Another's heart is such a burden to carry – Ezio is frankly unused to the weight.

Reaching out to trace the backs of his fingers over Desmond's scarred lips, Ezio sighs and sits. His nose still feels stuffy, but the fever, what little there had been, has passed – he is on the mend now. Whether it was Desmond's efforts or his own natural resistance to illnesses, the brunt of his dip into the icy pond is passing. That is something at least.

Quietly, Ezio turns to gather his clothes, and dresses up, careful to keep the noise to a minimum and do it without waking his beau. Desmond had been on edge since they met, forever on his guard. Peaceful rest for him will not go amiss. So, after banking the fire and adding a few more logs in it, Ezio eases out of the farmhouse, to check the area.

It is still dark out, the sunrise nothing but a dim outline on the horizon. It is quite the journey from Masyaf to Acre, and they had yet to make much progress on it. It had taken him two weeks to make the trip with a horse to start it with, it would take much longer on foot. And that was without counting the time they might spend in the farmhouse.

Not that Ezio is in any particular hurry – only in his age, time seems to move so much faster. So much to do, so little time left, and everything takes so long…

Ezio walks the perimeter of the farmhouse, curiously inspecting the dead orchard before turning to the well and beginning the arduous task of carrying water inside. It's a cold morning, and old injures ache. The work will do well to sort out his aching back… and he rather feels like a hot bath today. Perhaps Desmond would join him.

The farmhouse does indeed have a designated bathing room, with the floor of Arabic tile and a drain to carry the used water away. It's marvellous design, only _very_ cold, with the cold of the tiles radiating up the soles of Ezio's boots. Adding some nearly frozen water into the almost equally frozen bathtub…

Ezio only fills the bathtub halfway, leaving the rest of the water in buckets for warming – it would take quite bit of hot water, most likely. That would be later.

Desmond is still asleep when he returns to the main room. Ezio considers him, wondering if the man had slept at all in the nights before, in Masyaf and on the road. Then he leaves him to it, sitting by the fire to look through Niccolo Polo's journal and after leafing it for a while… to write.

> Claudia.
> 
> I arrived in Masyaf to find it indeed housing a sect of Templars, of the Byzantine Rite judging by their armour, lead by a man named Leandros – now dead. As I expected, I was not alone in search of Altaïr's secrets, only now that search is both over and only begun. I gained entrance to the Library, something the Templars did not, and I learned truths I can hardly write down.
> 
> There were no books there, no writings – only secrets and conclusion to a tale I played but  a small part in. Beginning with Altaïr, and ending with Desmond, both of whom I found present at the Library. I assume you remember what I told you of Desmond. He is with me now, asleep on our shared bedding, and I know not yet what to do with him.
> 
> Claudia, ever since that fateful day in the Vatican, over ten years ago, I have felt myself growing smaller in a world that grows ever older and more complicated – my effect upon the time and events around me shrinking as each year brings something new to cover that which we made. Rome is at peace now, but how many truly recall the fight it took to take it there, how many will remember in ten more years, in twenty – in a hundred?
> 
> I set out on this journey, I believe, to find a resolute conclusion for all that I have wrought, for good and ill – to set at ease the restlessness in my heart where the fate of the world is concerned. I believe I might have succeeded.

Ezio pauses, as on the bedding Desmond makes a quiet, sleepy noise. He doesn't wake, though, turning in his sleep only and tugging on the bedding, murmuring something quiet and plaintive in a language Ezio doesn't know. Ezio watches him a moment as he burrows into the bedding, obviously cold, and then gets up to cover him with one of their discarded stolen capes, adding a little bit more to cover his otherwise bare form. Desmond sighs and stays asleep.

Ezio imagines waking up to this sight for days, for weeks, for months to come – and it doesn't fill him with the sort of awkward unease as the concept of sharing his time and life and bed once had. He'd loved aplenty in his youth, maybe, but he'd left twice as many times, and rare were the women or men in his bed that visited it twice. Christina, whom he lost arguably three times, first to his own tragedy, then to her marriage, then to death… and Caterina, who was never his to keep.

No one else had he even considered sharing anything with, only a moment of pleasure and comfort and a fond memory, at most. Yet he thinks he could wake up beside Desmond years from now, and not mind it in least.

Perhaps Desmond had it wrong – perhaps he _was_ a little sappy, after all.

> We travel to Acre now, from there I will charter a ship to Cyprus, or Rhodos, and from there to Constantinople. Though the Library of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad has given out its secrets and one of them sleeps within arm's reach of me, there are other things that originated from there that we seek to find – Keys, originating from the same source as the Apple, which hold some of the memories of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and can also be used to open his Library again.
> 
> Sister, I know not where this new journey will take me, or what I might find at the end, but I find myself looking forward to the journey.
> 
> It is unlikely I will be able to send this letter for many weeks, and most likely by then I will have added to this one. But in case I have not, and something still occurs… I wish you all the best, my dearest sister.
> 
> With all my love.
> 
> Ezio.

-

It is quite nice, to play the part of the provider. Ezio has a meal, meagre though it might be, ready when Desmond wakes, and gets the pleasure of watching him realise this, as he comes to into the smell of cooked hare meat mixed in with what other foodstuff they had.

"It's not grand," Ezio says, stirring the pot idly. "But it is food."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, waking slowly and then lying there, still unclothed, with his head propped up on one arm, watching him. "How long have you been up?" he then asks, eying Ezio's clothes. "You've gone outside."

Ezio smiles a little. "Ordinarily I don't need a minder, Desmond. I'm on the mend now," he says and turns to the food. "But to answer your question, a few hours."

"You should've woken me up."

"You obviously needed the rest yourself – and I quite enjoyed watching you. It was a win for both of us," Ezio says and Desmond lets out a breath, dropping his head to the crook of his arm, closing his eyes. Ezio considers him and then takes the pot of mixed foodstuffs off the fire. "You haven't been sleeping much, the last few nights. You've been keeping watch."

"Something like that," Desmond says, drawing a slow breath, letting his eyes fall shut.

"Something like that?" Ezio asks, glancing at him.

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, swallowing, his body beautifully loose and relaxed upon the borrowed bedding. Ezio considers him, then the food, and then turns back to Desmond.

The man doesn't open his eyes until Ezio is on his hands and knees above him, his fully clothed and armoured form in a stark contrast to Desmond's bare, defenceless one. The look Desmond gives him is a new one – less nervous and more at ease.

"I can't sleep," Desmond admits. "Not normally – it's usually just… nightmares. Side effect of the Animus. I haven't slept like this in…" he considers and sighs. "I don't even know how long."

Ezio considers making a joke about Desmond needing proper exercise for good night's sleep, but it seems in poor taste. "But you slept well now?" Ezio says, watching him interestedly. Desmond seems a little… different. Quite a bit calmer now, and not quite as uncomfortable. "I'm glad, it seems like you truly needed it."

Desmond hums sleepily, turning to lie on his back and looking up at him. "Still cold outside?" he asks.

"Mm," Ezio agrees with a nod and tests this new, calmer Desmond by leaning down and pressing his lips to the man's bare chest, pitching his voice low. "I carried in some water, I thought we could make use of the bathtub here. I think it would be… quite enjoyable."

Desmond lets out a quivering sigh. "Yeah, alright," he says then. "Bath sounds lovely."

"No argument this time?" Ezio asks, arching a brow. "Here I was looking forward to _persuading you_ and now you give in so easily? My dear, I am almost disappointed."

"You've persuaded me pretty damn well already," Desmond draws a breath and releases it, watching him with a strange look on his face. "Shit, Ezio. I still can't believe this is real," he admits quietly. "You. Half of the time I think I must be seeing things. But I'm – it's settling in now."

Ezio frowns a little at that. "A problem I admit I have never encountered," he says slowly, and lowers his weight a little, settling his elbows on each side of Desmond's head. "But I'm quite real, I swear to you," he says and punctuates the words with a languid roll of his hips. "You are dreaming none of this."

Desmond swallows, and then leans up to kiss him – and yes, there's that edge of deathly desperation there, but also a forfeit which tastes sweeter still. "Yeah," he murmurs against Ezio's lips, his words grazing them softly. "I'm – starting to get on with the program now. Sorry it took me so long."

"Hmm," Ezio hums and tastes his lips again, sampling this new flavour. Sliding his fingers over Desmond's short hair, Ezio holds his head at an angle and drinks the acceptance from the young man's lips, and – it tastes honest and sincere and sweet.

"Let us eat," Ezio murmurs. "And then we shall heat the water up, and then I will have you directly in that bathtub."

Desmond draws a breath at that, and against him, Ezio can feel his awakening desire. "Yeah, sure," he says and swallows. "That sounds good."

And that is what they do, Ezio watching Desmond all the while. The food is even worse than Ezio hoped – next settlement, they would need to get some proper supplies – but Desmond eats it without complaint, with a thoughtful, distant look on his face. He looks occasionally at Ezio, and the reverence is still there, that has not gone anywhere – but there is a realisation there too.

Desmond seems more grounded now.

Ezio smiles with a private pride – he did that, there is no question of that – and leaves him to his thoughts.

They finish the meal in surprisingly enjoyable silence and then begin heating water, pot by pot. The bathing room is still cold, and the hot water fills it with steam, lit only by beams of cold sunlight that screen through the shutters. It would be quite romantic, were it not for the cold.

Ezio, curious about the mood Desmond is still in as well as looking to take full advantage of it, moves behind him as he finishes pouring another pot of hot water in. Desmond glances at him and then sets the pot down, and as Ezio moves to undress him, he does little to stop him, swaying into his touch. Silently, Ezio takes off what little clothing the young man had managed to put on, taking a moment to taste every bit of bared skin, sampling the lingering salt on Desmond's skin. Desmond shudders in the cold bathing chamber, the fine hairs of his skin standing up on end, but doesn't object.

"You _are_ quite agreeable today," Ezio murmurs against the back of Desmond's neck, half a mind to bend the young man over the edge of the tub and have him there and then – he feels so _sweet_. "What a pequliar new side you have."

"To be fair," Desmond sighs. "I'm trying not to wake up."

Ezio narrows his eyes at that and then, testing, he bares his teeth on the back of Desmond's neck, letting him feel them. Shudder goes through the young man and then he lets out a quiet, choked noise as Ezio bites him, slow and deliberate, sucking on the skin between his teeth and leaving a very well defined mark.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Desmond moans.

"Still think this is a dream?" Ezio demands, mouthing on the wet, reddened skin. "Or shall I draw blood?"

"Okay, not a kink I thought I'd have," Desmond whimpers, grabbing the tub for support and shuddering against him. "Jesus _Christ_ , Ezio."

Ezio smiles, satisfied, reaching around the younger man's shoulders to grip his chin, tilting his head back enough to get his mouth to his ear. "Feeling more awake now?" he asks in a low rumble. "I want you here and now, Desmond."

"Fuck – yes, sir," Desmond says with a shudder, turning his head to him, his eyes wide. Then he shivers, not in heat but in the cold.

"Into the bath," Ezio orders, and without waiting to see if Desmond follows his order, he too begins to strip. Desmond hesitates only a moment and then stumbles into the bathtub, sinking into the hot water with a shudder. Ezio keeps his eyes on him, ridding himself of his clothes with some haste and leaving them flung on the floor. Then, with Desmond watching him breathlessly, Ezio climbs into the tub after him, standing on his knees above him – it's not big enough to accommodate them both sitting down.

Desmond moves to make him more room, but Ezio holds him down with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in the tub as he moves over him, his knees between Desmond's. Together they ease into the water, Desmond leaning back and Ezio leaning over him, pressing him ever so slightly down, until he's down to his neck and Ezio can rest most of his weight over him.

Under the water, Desmond's arousal is solid and insistent – Ezio's own against it a little less so, but catching up quickly.

"Um," Desmond says, shifting to make him more room, hesitantly putting his hands on Ezio's shoulders. "So…"

"So," Ezio agrees, pushing forward to kiss him while tracing his hands over Desmond under the water, feeling his sides, his stomach, his loins. Desmond's breath stutters and then he tilts his head into the kiss, inhaling as he sucks on Ezio's lower lip, slow and quietly eager, but as Ezio soothes him, he slows down and eventually, relaxes into it.

Ezio's touches are slowing too, as he strokes his hands over Desmond's form below him, over his arms and thighs, propping them up until the knees come over the water. Desmond looks at him thoughtfully and attempts to put his legs over the edge of the tub, spreading himself open, but Ezio stops him, keeping his legs underwater.

Eventually, Desmond forfeits all attempts of trying to accommodate him or hurry him up and lets the moment move at its pace, giving into it and into Ezio, leaning back against the tub's edge.

"Later, I have no doubt, we will have many opportunities to do this with great hurry and greater passion," Ezio murmurs. "Time we have here might be rare. Let's enjoy it."

"Mmm," Desmond hums. "You were in a lot of hurry yesterday."

"I wanted to see you unravel, darling," Ezio murmurs and moves his hands to his waist, holding him in his hands. "Now I want to see you melt."

Desmond gives him a look and then smiles, leaning his head back. "Do your worst."

Ezio smiles at that soft spoken challenge and leans in to kiss him, making it excruciatingly slow and luxurious, just to see how far he can push it. And, ah, he has read the young man right. Desmond doesn't push into it – he takes what he is given, and he rolls with it.

 _Beautiful_.

"No complaints about foreplay today, I think," Ezio murmurs, after a small eternity of kisses and slow touches.

"You're in a weird mood too," Desmond murmurs. "What's gotten into you?"

"I must be affected by you," Ezio says, and kisses him again.

They wash, after some time, using the unscented soap left behind by the farmhouse's long gone owner. Ezio takes pleasure in doing the task for Desmond, rubbing soap all over him and then rinsing it off again, leaving the young man in turn laughing and then panting when Ezio applies pressure and digs his fingers into the long muscles, into the soft tissues – into the crevice of his behind.

Desmond doesn't hesitate to return the favour either, urging Ezio to give him space and prompting him to stand on his knees over him as he lathers the soap on and then off again, pressing slow kisses onto the newly cleaned skin. He doesn't do what some have done in bed – he doesn't kiss Ezio's scars, doesn't give them any special attention. Instead he kisses the moles on Ezio's ribs and strokes his manhood, but he gives no deference to the scars.

"Do they bother you?" Ezio asks.

"Hm?" Desmond asks, mouthing the line of hair on his stomach.

"Scars. You have so few of your own."

Desmond glances at the old scar, one of _many_ on the side of Ezio's stomach, where a blade had sank in and failed to kill him. "I wouldn't say _bother_ exactly," he murmurs, and presses his palm over the wounds. "I remember how you got most of these. I remember the people who gave them to you. I don't know – they don't deserve recognition."

Ezio tilts his head a little at that and then takes Desmond's head in his hands and leans down to kiss him, slow but deep, deep enough to pull the breath from Desmond's lungs out in a moan.

"I want you now," Ezio purrs. "Will you yield?"

"For you? Anywhere, anytime," Desmond moans.

"Turn for me, Desmond."

Desmond hesitates and then leans up, stealing a kiss from his lips before turning, facing the other end of the tub and leaning his folded arms on the edge. Ezio looks over his prostrate body, tracing his hands over the long lines of his back, untouched by pain or injury. Then he leans to reach for his discarded belt, picking through the satchels until he finds his medicine pouch.

Desmond sighs as Ezio presses his oiled fingers into him, the clench of his body wet and hot. "Thank god," he murmurs and pushes onto Ezio's fingers. "I really didn't want to do this dry."

"Such trust in me," Ezio hums, leaning in to kiss the soapy rivulets of water off his back. "You have done this before."

"Mmhh," Desmond agrees and pushes onto his fingers again, his whole body rolling into it. "It's been a while though. Go slow, please."

"Of course," Ezio whispers, kissing up his spine, his neck, mouthing at the back of his ear while slicking his cock slowly with his free hand. Desmond breathes steadily, letting out only small noises and none of outright discomfort, but when Ezio presses forward, pulling his fingers out, he stills, waiting.

Normally, Ezio would benefit his bedfellow the respect of not looking. But the way Desmond glances at him over his wet shoulder, his eyes hot and glimmering with gold, he cannot _not_ look. Leaning back, Ezio takes Desmond by the bend of his hips and then looks down, looks his _fill,_ spreading Desmond's already parted cheeks further apart.

No noise of objection, not even when Ezio takes himself in hand and moves to press inward – only then Desmond moves, bowing his head and pushing to it.

It's almost too easy, one long slick movement from start to finish, with Desmond releasing a long, slow groan at the end while Ezio has to squeeze his eyes shut. It has been a good long while since he bedded a man, and he's forgotten the sheer _grip_ of it, how painfully tight the fit is. He's never been on the receiving end of it, it always seems as though it can never be anything but painful, so _tight_ it can be.

And Desmond is by far the tightest fit he's felt.

"Are you alright?" Ezio manages, breathing shakily through his mouth and looking down. Desmond is hanging his head, gripping the end of the tub, trying to stay still.

"Don't move," Desmond gasps, shuddering so powerfully that Ezio can feel it within him.

Ezio hold still, his hand coming to rest on Desmond's shivering back and then he looks down. The stretch, the redness of it – how wetly Desmond gleams with the oil. "Christ Almighty," Ezio whispers.

Desmond moans in agreement, and then Ezio watches him pull his body away, the length of his member coming revealed, slick and wet and reddened and harder than Ezio remembers having been in _years_. His girth looks altogether too big for the task it's being applied to, and Ezio almost winces at the imagination of what Desmond must be experiencing –

And then Desmond pushes back into him, releasing a quivering groan, in part pain and in part pleasure. "Don't move," he almost sobs and Ezio grimaces, straining to follow the order, but oh, _oh_ –

Slowly Desmond fucks himself back onto Ezio's cock, growing redder and shakier as he moves, his hands white knuckled where he grips the edge of the bathtub. Watching him move, every motion a prayer for pleasure, it takes Ezio a truly embarrassing amount of time to realise the neglect he's committing.

Slowly, carefully, he leans down over Desmond, and reaches around his shaking body, to collect him in hand. Desmond is still hard. Whatever he is feeling, the pleasure is still greater.

"My darling," Ezio whispers, winding his finger around the hot column of Desmond's length and pumping him in time of his slow backwards pushes. "My dearest, my love – Desmond – you cannot imagine, the way you feel, the way you look – my _darling_ –"

"Ezio –" Desmond answers, sounding _wrecked_. " _Ngh_ Ezio –!"

"Desmond, dearest – may I move?" Ezio begs, pressing desperate kisses to his back. "May I, Desmond, please – _may I_ –"

"Yes –!" Desmond chokes out. "Yes, yes – Ezio –"

Ezio is no stranger to the many flavours of pleasure, and the even more varied plethora of pain. Desmond feels like both beneath him, and so much more, as he slides into him, deep and true. Below him Desmond makes a sound Ezio has heard from the dying and the living both, and with a cry of his own, Ezio presses deep, deep, as deep as he can get.

It feels, he thinks, rather like becoming part of a whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is gon have lotta smut, okay, like, yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And MORE SMUT

The cold is finally broken two days later – two days, during which they get very little done. They leave the bathwater in the tub for most of it, only shifting enough of it to fit more hot water in whenever they feel like another bath, but even that is a minimal task at best. It is only the need for more food that eventually makes Desmond put on his clothes and Ezio to seek out more firewood.

They are thoroughly enjoyable days, the ones spent in that abandoned farmhouse. If they are not found locked up in love making, they lay on the blankets and duvets and wait for time to pass in each other's company and warmth. It is not as if there is much else to do but wait. The most they can do, really, is either read Niccolo Polo's journal or tell each other stories. Lovemaking, after all, is much more enjoyable.

For his back alone, though, Ezio is glad to get on the road. Desmond brings out of him a fervour he has not felt in years now, and is nowadays ill-suited to handle. Men in his age simply cannot rise to the occasion as often as he'd now like. It is a pity that they did not meet sooner, when he was younger, when he could keep up with Desmond's vigour.

Well, the young man doesn't seem to mind his hands, as eager for their invasion as he is of Ezio's member, so Ezio at least can stay confident in the knowledge that he is not neglecting his lover. And the sight of him writhing in pleasure is quite enjoyable for its own merit.

Yes, it is probably good that the weather eases up on them, and they take to the road once more.

"It is many days still to Acre," Ezio says as they make their way down finally from the foothills to the plains of al-Ghab, Desmond looking around with great interest and eagerness. "You will have plenty of time to enjoy the scenery."

"Yes," Desmond agrees. "It's just – I saw a lot of this place through Altaïr's eyes. It's changed."

"Three hundred years have passed," Ezio reminds him. "Enough time for any place to change."

"Masyaf itself was mostly the same," Desmond muses. "Worse, even – there were more people in Altaïr's time, the houses were in better shape."

"I imagine much of this area has fell into ruin as the weather has changed. If it was truly warmer in those times, then life must have been easier this high up than it is now," Ezio muses, glancing back towards the mountainside, towards the snow-peaked mountains. Masyaf is quite high up, as settlements and fortresses go. "I imagine the ground freezes every winter now, and when you can no longer trust to grow your own food…"

"Yeah, that's probably it," Desmond agrees, looking back as well.

"Tell me, how was it in Altaïr's time?" Ezio asks. "A fortress full of Assassins, it seems… rather like a fantastical fairytale to me."

"Assassins were more like military then, not a secret order – Masyaf was a country onto itself," Desmond says and then launches into a description of a time gone by, when Assassins were well known in the Holy Land, feared and hated and respected in equal measure.

It makes for a lovely way to travel, to do so in company. Even in his youth Ezio did so rarely, and usually only for very specific tasks – mostly when he moved, he did so alone and in secret. He'd come to enjoy the solitude for its own sake as well as self defence against loneliness, but… this is quite nice too.

They talk quite a deal as they move. Desmond tells him of the past, of the future, of Assassins through the ages. There are periods of rise and fall for their order, and Ezio soon comes to realise that perhaps this time, his time, is at the peak of Assassin prowess. After him, things declined – until eventually, less than 300 years from now, the order dwindled into the handfuls scattered across the world, falling into obscurity and bitterness.

He'd felt it, however, seen the fading in action. Things were already in decline in Rome, in Spain. With the main Templar threat dismantled in both places, the Assassin order fell into… indolence. They were only as strong as the causes they fought for and the enemies they rose to face, Ezio knows this, he'd felt this, but it's still sad to understand the inevitability of it. Though Assassins still remain in Desmond's time…

"I wouldn't say Templars won, exactly," Desmond says. "It's just – the world moved more towards their way of thinking than ours. The economy and the politics – it eventually just developed in a way that the Templars were better suited for it than Assassins. They still try to do the things they are doing now. Order through control, you know. But I don't think it will ever work, in any time."

"A very dim light of hope in such a grim future," Ezio comments quietly.

"Not exactly," Desmond says and sighs. "I was raised by Assassins, always going on about the threat of the Templars, but – it doesn't work like that in a real world. I don't know how to put it. I lived as a civilian most of my adult life, that's what I chose – so I saw a lot of stuff Assassins don't generally even look at. And the way I see it…" he trails off for a moment, searching for words. "Templars became a part of the machine that they don't really have control over anymore. No one does. Future got too, I don't know. Too big, too rich, too complicated. It's  the work of thousands, hundreds of thousands of people arguing, not by one group, controlling it all."

"Hmm," Ezio answers, trying to imagine it. "I'm sorry, I can't picture it."

"I think it's mostly to do with politics," Desmond muses. "Things are run differently now – future is run in committees, by groups of people. There's very few places with monarchs that actually have any power anymore. It's almost all democracy now. Parliaments and congresses and assemblies and legislatures. And large groups of people are harder to control than singular leaders."

"Democracy – like how Athens were run in ancient times?" Ezio asks with interest.

"Kind of. Just with about two, three centuries of complication and tradition on top," Desmond agrees and shrugs. "My time sits on top of a lot of complicated history and many super massive fuck ups – we had to kind of learn how to manage stuff peacefully, or at least fairly, fast, or we'd end up destroying ourselves."

"I'm sorry?"

Desmond looks away, a little awkward. "Two worldwide wars and weapons of mass destruction," he says, which is not an explanation at all. "In either case, the system of checks and balances in the future, it doesn't lend as much power to the Templar as they'd be able to gain if we still had absolute monarchies. In the future, we just _can't_ let any one person have that much power, it's too damn dangerous for the world as a whole. So Templars are part of the system, a small part, but I don't think they can ever control it. It's too big and too complicated."

The _way_ he speaks. Ezio had never though Desmond to be ignorant or stupid in any way, he is quite capable… but he does not carry himself in the way of a learned man, so Ezio had come into the quiet expectation of Desmond being a skilled Assassin, but perhaps that is all he is. Or maybe he was like Ezio himself was, educated in youth to a reasonable extent, but then the life of an Assassin took over, and that was all he knew.

Ezio had neglected his own classical studies after the death of his father and brothers. Two years he'd lingered in misery and grief and then he'd taken up his blade – and after that, it was well over ten years that he'd taken up books again. Altaïr's codex, once finally completed, had opened his eyes back to learning, but by that time a decade and more had been wasted in sin and vice and death. It was an enjoyable decade, death aside, but a wasteful one nonetheless.

And _still_ with those years of waste, he knows he carries himself as the one with education. He still remembers the pride of it – how after so many years of wasteful neglect of such pursuits, Bartolomeo still looked at him and said, "You are the educated one, you tell me how it is done," and meant it with respect. Ezio's learning holds not a faintest candle to the likes of Leonardo and men like him, and yet Ezio still takes pride in it, even knowing now, with age, how truly little he knows of the world after all.

Desmond has none of the pride, none of the mannerisms of the well educated – there isn't a conceited bone in his body – and then he goes and speaks of concepts like government, economy, _democracy_?

"What?" Desmond asks, glancing at him past the edge of his white hood. "What is it?"

"You, my dear, are a gem," Ezio says, reaching over to touch the younger man's chin and pull him into a brief kiss. Desmond leans in at his urging, little surprised but agreeable, and Ezio smiles against his lips.

"Okay? Thanks?" Desmond offers, blinking with confusion.

"Tell me, when you lived the life of a civilian, what was it that you did?" Ezio asks, trailing his hand down to Desmond's shoulder and then to his back above Altaïr's sashes and belts, as they continue on.

"I was a bartender," Desmond says, shaking his head.

"That is -?"

"Oh, like a tavern keeper, I guess?" Desmond says and shrugs. "I served people drinks."

"… I'm sorry, you worked in a _tavern_?" Ezio asks with some incredulity.

Desmond smiles wryly. "Among other things, but yeah, that was mostly what I did. I mixed alcohols and served drinks."

Ezio eyes him, not sure if he is being made fun of or not. "I see," he says then. "It sounds like a… difficult life?"

"No, it was pretty easy, I liked it," Desmond shrugs and looks ahead. "Not that much death and violence, in serving drinks."

Ezio shakes his head. Seems like there is much more to his young beau than he realised, then. Far more. "Tell me about it," he says, easing his fingers slightly under the sash. "Tell me about the future you lived in."

"It's not that interesting really," Desmond mutters.

"It was a life lived by you, dearest," Ezio says. "I promise you, I am very interested."

Desmond glances at him and then smiles, pleased. That alone would make the stories worth it, and what stories there are!

Ezio listens to his words in silence, and tries to imagine the great city Desmond comes from in the New World, one of steel and glass, with buildings that reach the clouds.

* * *

 

They arrive at a small settlement before the night, a small quiet village. There is no inn there, and no one is willing to offer shelter to two strange men from foreign lands, both carrying heavy armaments – but a hay barn is offered for the night for them to shelter in, and people are still willing to sell them food. That, Ezio decides, is good enough.

And, at night, they have each other to keep warm, and by now the process of arranging themselves against each other is as familiar as the cold itself – Ezio slides behind Desmond, pulling him to his chest and sighing softly at the warmth of him, seeping into their clothing.

"A bit cold for that," Desmond murmurs, squirming a little when Ezio eases his bare fingers under the folds of his robes, warming them on the inside of Desmond's thighs.

"Yes," Ezio agrees, pressing his thumb on the stretched fabric over Desmond's crotch, feeling for what's beneath. He hums, pleased, when Desmond shifts into the touch, sighing. "But you make it hard to keep my hands to myself. I do so love to see you writhe, dear."

Desmond tilts his head a little to look back at him, and Ezio presses a kiss on his cheek, smiling at his exasperation. "You are insatiable," Desmond murmurs, leaning to it. "How can you still be such a horndog in your age?"

"You wound me," Ezio murmurs. "I have only grown more appreciative of pleasures of flesh with age – and more skilled, I should hope. Will you let me, my dear?"

Desmond sighs, rolling his hips to his hand and then, much to Ezio's disappointment, turns. "It's too damn cold," Desmond mutters. "And I am not coming into my pants. Let's try something else."

"Oh?" Ezio asks, interested. They have sampled many pleasures together, but this sounds like something new. And Desmond has so far yet to be the one to push for advantage or for a lead, and the very thought of it makes Ezio stir in his hose. "What do you have in mind, my darling?"

Desmond props himself up on one arm, considering him, hesitating.

"I'm waiting," Ezio purrs, using his hand to move Desmond's white hood aside enough to get his mouth to the young man's ear. "Say what you have in mind, dear. I promise I won't balk."

"Oh, really," Desmond murmurs, squirming a little, and Ezio grins. Such weakness he has for the purr of Ezio's voice, even after all the times Ezio has spent speaking filthy nothings to his ears. Desmond draws a breath and then asks, "Do you suck cock, Ezio?"

Ezio can feel himself _jolt_ at the crudeness of it.

"You haven't so far, which made me wonder," Desmond says, looking down at him while Ezio gives him a surprised look. "All the things we've done, you'd think it would've come up, but it hasn't, you didn't even try to make me do it, so… Do you?"

Ezio draws a breath, trying to still the sudden rising of surprised, almost alarmed heat. "Not often," he manages. "My dear, are you –"

He trails off as Desmond looks down at him, low-lidded and heated. "Interesting," the young man murmurs. "I think I have something to teach you for once. That's fun."

Ezio blows out a breath and leans forward to kiss him. "Then teach me, my love – whatever you want me to do, show me."

Desmond grins against his lips and then pushes at his shoulder until Ezio rolls to lie on his back. For a moment he leans over Ezio, but he doesn't get on him as he had on some occasions, reaching over him sideways instead, kissing him deeply – while with one hand searching entrance under Ezio's sash.

Getting the idea, Ezio bares himself only to as much as is necessary, easing the lacing of his hose open enough to reveal his rapidly hardening length to the cool air of the hay barn. Ezio has to wince at the temperature only for a moment before Desmond takes him in his wide hand, warming him with his touch – with his other hand, he unfastens his own legwear, enough to reveal the necessary.

"I see," Ezio murmurs, and smiles, slow and delighted with understanding as he realises what Desmond means to do. It is not as strange an act as all that – he has done it with women before, to great effect – but this will be the first time with a man, that much is true. The concept is thrilling to say the least – and that Desmond is the one to suggest it…

Desmond grins almost cheekily against his lips, steals one more kiss, and then he turns, moving like a cat over Ezio. Ezio breathes and then looks up, as Desmond's thighs come to each side of his head and then –

"Ahh," Ezio breathes, as the touch of Desmond's hand is without warning replaced by the wet heat of his mouth. The dichotomy of the cold air on his face and crotch and the _scorching_ wetness of Desmond's mouth is deliriously good, and Ezio can't help but thrust into it, getting his feet flat on the hay under them to get leverage. Desmond hums and spreads his thighs further, taking him in deeper, sucking him eagerly.

Ezio revels in the sensation for a moment, his eyes closing and his lips parted as he concentrates on the touch of Desmond's tongue on his manhood, the graze of his teeth, so careful – the gripping of the suction. Where Desmond's lips seal over him, his member suffers the difference of the temperature most keenly – left wet in wake of Desmond's mouth, the skin is vulnerable indeed to the cold, and he can feel Desmond's breath over it and – ah, it is sinfully good.

Desmond pulls away, kissing the head of Ezio's manhood lingeringly and then looking down over him, upside down and a little strange, almost completely shadowed under his hood. "Ezio," he says, nudging his head with his thigh.

"Apologies, darling," Ezio breathes, shuddering at the cold that now envelops his cock, Desmond's hand gripping it barely a shelter against it. "That was too good. Here, come lower –"

He tugs on Desmond's still fully clothed hips, moving the tails of Altaïr's robes aside. They still fall over him like a canopy of curtains, enclosing his world into a small place of Desmond's loins, his manhood half hard in the air above him. Desmond shudders at the touch of his breath and then moves as Ezio urges him, spreading his thighs and lowering his hips until Ezio kisses the gleaming head of his cock with ease.

It is a most distracting act of pleasure Ezio thinks he has ever suffered. The feel of Desmond on his tongue, in his hands, moving above him – try as he might to concentrate on it and make it good for his lover, there is Desmond's mouth on him, distracting him with the feel, the noise, the deep muffled noises of discomfort and delight both.  Ezio pushes through it, piling hay under his head as much as he can to get a more comfortable angle and then taking Desmond in, licking him, sucking him, covering what he cannot comfortably fit in with both hands and stroking.

It's gloriously graceless and then messy. Ezio can feel himself salivating in a way even a great meal cannot prompt, and judging by the wet, messy sounds Desmond is making, it's the same for him. At an urgent, unintended thrust of Desmond's hips Ezio's throat complains and his eyes water and he feels _helpless_. Desmond moans in apology and licks at his length to make up for it, while Ezio pulls back to gasp for a pained breath. Desmond, he's noticed before, is notably long. Long enough to hurt a man – and under him, Ezio is helpless against such thrusts.

What a terribly thrilling notion – if not a fairly dangerous one. This would require some care.

"Sorry," Desmond breathes against Ezio's saliva-wet length, his thighs trembling under strain.

"Shush, darling," Ezio murmurs and kisses his cock tenderly. "Lie down on your side."

Desmond breathes and then does as asked, moving to lie beside Ezio, his legs falling open with one knee propped up to give him space. Ezio mirrors his position, tugging at Desmond's lower thigh to get it under his head – oh, that is better – and then, as Desmond situates himself more comfortably as well, he pushes his hood back and resumes.

Ah, much better – he has control like this, he can grip at Desmond's waist with one hand to keep him from moving, and with the other to cover the length that he is ill-equipped to take… for now.

Desmond seems to have no such trouble – every so often, Ezio has to stop and gasp at the clench of his throat. Desmond, certainly, has more experience in this than him. How well he enjoys it is hard to say, Ezio cannot see his face from this angle, but by god, he feels enthusiastic.

Ezio takes him back in, tugging with his hand in time with his mouth, until Desmond begins coiling, his hips quivering, his groin tight – and then he is coming in Ezio's mouth in jolts and spurts, releasing a glory of wet, choked moans on Ezio's length, choking in pleasure around it. That sound alone keeps Ezio on him, makes him take the outpour of seed and swallow it, despite the taste and the feeling he is ill accustomed to.

Desmond's mouth is slack on his length in the aftermath, panting around him – a most unusual and conflicted sensation. "Desmond, darling," Ezio urges, his voice wet gravel, and Desmond answers with a whimper and another dribble of pleasure. Smiling, Ezio mouths at him again, prolonging his pleasure while keeping him warm even as he thrusts with his hips into Desmond's slack mouth.

The young man gets the point quickly enough, and returns to his task, still panting but vigorous. Ezio sucks on him lazily, the urgency of performance gone, and gives himself into Desmond's administrations, warning him with a murmur of, "Now, my dear –" at which Desmond pulls back until the very head of Ezio's length rests on his tongue, his hands gripping securely around him and milking him to completion. The cold of the air prolongs the release a little  and Ezio finds himself coming in long, steady bursts, Desmond's mouth sucking all of it in, his tongue laving over the slit for more.

Christ, Ezio thinks, moaning in helpless appreciation. And here he was starting to fear Desmond was something of a prude before he came along. "Oh, my dear," Ezio murmurs, kissing the man's cock tenderly in appreciation. "My surprising, delightful dear – "

Desmond hums, pulling back and licking his lips. "Yeah," he murmurs muzzily. "So fucking good."

"Mmh, very good, yes," Ezio agrees.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, his breath hot against Ezio's length.

The cold makes them withdraw eventually back to their clothes, almost all evidence of pleasure hidden. Ezio tugs and pulls at Desmond until he turns back around and, oh, "You look a wreck, my love," Ezio breathes.

"Fuck, so do you," Desmond murmurs, and with a slack mouth kisses the wetness of Ezio's mouth, licking at his chin. "Gonna have to do that again."

"Mm," Ezio agrees and flips him on his back on the hay to clean him up to the best of his ability. It's as messy as the lovemaking, but quite delightful for its own merit. "You, my dear, need a shave," Ezio murmurs with a smile, licking at Desmond's stubbled jawline.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that, sure," Desmond sighs, and pulls him into a messy, thoroughly enjoyable kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

It is a little over two weeks they spend on road, moving from one small settlement to another, until they finally reach Acre. In that time many pleasurable nights have been shared, and Ezio thinks Desmond has come to accept his fate fully – he is almost at ease when they enter the city the thief's way, sneaking over the walls and past guards.

"Whoa, this place has changed," Desmond murmurs, on the wall.

"Altaïr came here, I assume?" Ezio asks.

"Many times," Desmond agrees and stands up to peer over the rooftops. "It's… _man_ ," he murmurs. "Almost nothing about this place looks the same."

Ezio looks at him. "How much do you know of Acre's history?"

"Not all that much – I know how it was in Altaïr's time. That's… actually, that's about it," Desmond answers.

"There was a terrible siege here, after Altaïr's time," Ezio says. "The Siege of Acre, where the Mamluks conquered the city with the force of two hundred thousand men. From what I have heard from the locals, the city never quite recovered and no extensive efforts have been made to repair it. Some of the major districts perhaps, but… quite a bit of the old ruins still remain."

Desmond hums. "Damn," he says, heartfelt.

Ezio pats him on the back. "The local Assassin Bureau still sits in the same place it was three hundred years ago – or so I have been told," he says. "Come, you can tell me how truthful the local brothers and sisters are on the matter."

They take the scenic route through the city, as Ezio is wont to do when he arrives in new places. Not that Acre is new, he had came to Masyaf by Acre after all, but in big cities things change in a short amount of time, and Acre is no different in this. Merchants who had their shops on streets he'd come to know have vacated and new ones have moved in their places. A portion of an old bazaar is closed due to building collapse. A beggar for whom Ezio had turned to for news about the city's thieves and mercenaries had been killed, and a young boy missing two of his limbs had taken his place on the street corner.

Things always change.

Desmond looks at Acre with new and old eyes simultaneously, the line of his mouth strangely firm and displeased. Sometimes, Ezio looks at him and thinks he can see a bit of the old Master shining through, like the ghost of Altaïr in Masyaf had stepped into Desmond's flesh and sometimes looks through his eyes and – usually disapproved. This is one of those times – Desmond looks like a man returning to a place he visited years ago, and tries to remember the layout of.

"Hey, Ezio," Desmond says. "Do you mind if I…?"

"If you…?" Ezio trails off as Desmond looks up, to a high spiral of a local watchtower that stands above the city like a needle. "Ah," Ezio says in realisation. He'd already internalised the city's layout before – and how strange. He knew, intellectually, that Desmond had the Gift. But somehow, he'd not realised what it might mean.

"Yes, of course," Ezio says. "I will wait here."

Desmond flashes him a brief smile and then moves, taking a near wall at a run and hauling himself up its window frames, up and onto the roof and out of sight. Moments later, Ezio sees a white-clad figure scaling the side of the tower, moving with all the nimble grace of an Assassin as he hauls himself up, handhold by handhold, until he reaches the top.

Ezio had never seen another take a city in with the Gift from an eagle's perspective. Not since his own brother died, anyway, and back then he was too young, too foolish to realise what Federico was showing him. Now, with age and regret and thirty years of bearing the Gift of Sight alone, Desmond is using the same Gifts.

Ezio sighs, not sure if it's with regret or relief. Try as he might, he has not found another with his gifts, not outside writings. He'd wondered, sometimes, if the Gift would die with him. Obviously not.

With the sun at his back, Desmond spreads out his arms and leaps down, flipping gracefully in the air and landing out of sight. Ezio sets out to meet him, listening for any alarm Desmond's feat of prowess might have caused. There is nothing, the city is busy with its own affairs and cares not about them.

Desmond has hay on his hood when he jogs back to him.

"How was the view?" Ezio asks, reaching to pluck the offending straws off him.

"Enlightening," Desmond says, grinning. "Also the Bureau isn't in the same place it used to be – it's across the street from it, though.

"You can see that far from here?"

"Like you can't," Desmond says, nudging at him. "I spotted some Assassins moving on the rooftops – and I think they saw me. Do you want to catch up with them?"

"They will find us if they have something to say," Ezio says, "but by all means, let us go announce ourselves at the Bureau. It wouldn't do, being impolite in another's territory."

"Heh," Desmond answers, agreeing, and they continue on their way, taking the streets at a leisurely pace. No Assassins drop on them and no one approaches them, so there is unlikely to be any urgent matters demanding his attention. There is something of a welcoming committee, however, when they do arrive at the Bureau.

Judging by Desmond's expression, the building doesn't look at all how it used to.

"Mentor, you are back," the Dai of the Bureau greets him in Arabic, approaching him from amidst the curious Assassins and novices. "Welcome back to the Bureau – tell us, was your search fruitful?"

"It was – educational," Ezio says in the same language, and then notices how many are staring at Desmond.

Who is wearing the famous historical robes of the original Levantine Brotherhood – full with their symbols, the signature belt, the sash, everything. All he is missing, really, is a bracer for the hidden blade. It makes Ezio almost regret that Desmond had undressed the ceremonious outer robe that had hid the more traditional robes – though noticeable in their intricacy, he did not look like a statue come to life in them.

"Ah," Ezio says, making a decision. "This is Desmond, an Assassin like us, a most trustworthy one. He joined me at Masyaf and we have been travelling together since."

"But those robes –" the Dai says quietly.

"The weather in Masyaf surprised both of us, I am afraid, and Desmond was forced to scavenge for more suitable clothing than what he had, as well as for weapons and armour" Ezio says. "We had to make do with what could be recovered in Masyaf. No disrespect is meant for your history in the Holy Land, I assure you."

"So you did find something, Il Mentore," another of the local Assassins asks. "We have gone over the old castle many times, and all that is valuable has long since been removed from the site – where did you find these robes?"

"A locked vault, with only few items," Ezio says dismissively. "Truly, the robes were the most fortuitous find." Everything else has the chance to be very unlucky indeed, Precursor artefacts as they were… Desmond himself excluded, of course.

Desmond is giving him a curious look but says nothing, only bowing his head slightly to the curious looks he is being given. There is some confusion and even a hint of suspicion on the faces of the Assassins of Acre – which is good, they should not take words at face value – but the explanation is ultimately accepted without further comment, and the matter is dismissed. It is, after all, a far more likely explanation than the truth.

"We have some letters from Italy here for you, Il Mentore," the Dai of the Acre Assassin Bureau offers then. "I have them here."

"Grazie," Ezio answers, accepting the parcel of letters. "Did anything occur here that I should know about?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary – though there have been more Templar sightings in the area. The Byzantines," the Dai reports. "A group of them arrived not long ago, though they haven't done much yet."

"Just stick their noses into everything and stink the city with their foul presence," another Assassin mutters.

"I think they are looking for someone – I saw them searching an old man wearing dark robes," a younger Assassin, a novice, says – and is slapped across the back of the head for his effort.

"An old man wearing dark robes?" Ezio questions, smiling faintly. "Not unlike my own, I assume."

"I'm sure it couldn't possibly have anything to do with you, Mentor," the Dai assures quickly.

"It might have everything to do with me," Ezio admits. "I'm afraid I did not make many friends in Masyaf, nor did my arrival or actions there go entirely unnoticed. Thank you, for this," he adds then, waving the letters. "Tell me, have you any word on the ships in the harbour? Bound for Cyprus or Rhodos, preferably."

"I will send a runner to check, post haste," the Dai says and looks between Ezio and Desmond. "In meanwhile, please, enjoy the hospitality of the Bureau, and if there is anything we can do for you and your companion, Il Mentore, please let us know."

"Bene, I will do that. Might I use the same room I did before?"

"Yes, of course – it has not been touched."

"Grazie."

Ezio motions Desmond to follow, and quickly the young man falls into step with him, following him quietly deeper into the Bureau, and into the private room the local Assassins had given him. Ezio lets Desmond into the room and then closes the door, glancing through the letters and then setting them aside, unopened.

"I hope you forgive me the deceit," he says. "I do not think it wise to spread the word of your origins, not yet at least."

"No, I understand. Who would even believe us?" Desmond says, and pushes Altaïr's hood down, smiling wryly. "You don't keep stuff from other Assassins often, though, even by omission."

"I rarely do," Ezio agrees. "Rarely there is a cause. This time, there is."

Desmond smiles a little at that and then looks away. "This is not at all like the Bureau used to be," he says then. "It was much smaller, back then – just two, three rooms maybe, and one of them was open at the top, an inside garden really," he says. "They all used to work as shops – the Acre one was a scribe shop."

"I suspected as much," Ezio muses with a smile. "Much of local Assassin history was lost during the siege and the ensuing years of occupation. Much was rebuild since. Still, it is good to take pride in one's history, even if some of it has to be rebuilt for the cause."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees, looking at the room. "I like it. No private rooms back then, everyone was forced to sleep in the indoor garden area," he muses and casts Ezio a look. "Looks like a cushy job, being the Mentor, these days."

"It wasn't back then?"

Desmond snorts and goes to sit on the lone bed in the room, sighing as he stretches his feet out. "Tell me something – are you really the only Mentor in all of the Brotherhood?"

"Yes?" Ezio says, frowning a little. "Should there be others?"

Desmond shrugs. "I don't know. Sometimes it just – catches me off guard, how interconnected the Brotherhood is – and knowing where you came from, how you started…"

"It seems ridiculous that I have been, after all this, put in charge?" Ezio asks wryly. "You are not the only one thinking it." Certainly, the Spanish Brotherhood wasn't particularly fond or eager to please him as their Mentor.

Desmond tilts his head to the side. "It's impressive," he says. "We only had one Mentor too, but… it was different. We had easier, faster ways of communication, here – hell. Journey from Masyaf to Acre takes _weeks_. How long it takes to get a message from the furthest end of the Brotherhood to the other end?"

"Months, easily," Ezio says, considering him curiously. "Not so where you come from?"

"No, not at all," Desmond agrees and leans back a little before falling to lie on his back. "Oh god, a _real bed_ ," he sighs heavily, letting his arms splay wide open. "Can I just… not move for a while?"

Ezio chuckles. "Rest, my love," he says and turns to the letters. "I expect we have time, and I have correspondence to look over. I'll wake you later, for food."

"Sounds good," Desmond agrees and closes his eyes, tucking the edge of the beaked hood over his face.

Ezo smiles at him and then sits by the desk before the shuttered window, where the slats have been angled so as to give light but not show the interior to the outside world. With the noise of the street and cool air filtering in through the window, Ezio opens the first letter and begins to read.

Most of the letters are expected. Two letters from Claudia, one a personal letter, the other a report of the status of the Brotherhood. Though Ezio is no longer in position to lead the full breadth of the Brotherhood and his retirement from the position had been as amiable as he could make it, her status as the new Mentor is still a slightly shaky one – and so, sometimes, she still seeks his approval for her decisions.

Ezio had taken his journey in small part to give her the necessary space to grow. Though she is not much younger than he, Claudia had aged well, far away from action as she had been, not suffering the sort of injuries that now made difficult the acts that had once been so easy for Ezio. She could serve the Brotherhood for a decade and more without issue, and keep everything in order until another successor would be found. Still… running Brotherhood of now thousands of trained killers is a little different from running a brothel of only some dozens.

She would be magnificent at it, once she gained a little more confidence… but the report is still appreciated.

Ezio looks over her personal letter. It's brief and cutting, and still displeased with him and his fool's errand.

> … and when you come back, Brother, there will be words of the records you kept in year 1507, for I have been looking them over and I swear, sometimes I wonder if we got the same education. But then, you were running around like a cat in heat in the years I was in Monteriggioni running Uncle Mario's finances, weren't you, you…

It is remarkable, the number of expletives she can fit in a single sentence and keep it legible. Ezio looks over the letter again and then takes out the one he wrote to her in the farmhouse after leaving Masyaf. He has added a few sentences to it since, mostly about the cold in the area and how different it was from how Altaïr had written of the place.

He takes out a new leaf of paper and sets out to add his final thoughts.

> Sister.
> 
> I have received the letter you sent in February, and be certain that the issue of the records in year 1507 – I was not even in Rome for most of that year. Lay your blame instead at the feet of Machiavelli and whomever he put in charge of record keeping.
> 
> Desmond and I have reached Acre now, as you might discern from my having received your letter and your report, both of which I greatly appreciate. The rest of our journey from Masyaf was mostly uneventful, bar from a few bandits on the road. The way we took, I believe we managed to avoid most of the Templar force – only to find that some have reached Acre before us and might be on lookout for us.
> 
> We'll be looking to charter a ship next, to Cyprus or Rhodos, whichever might present itself to us first, and from there we shall continue our way towards Constantinople, so you may aim your next parcel of insults there, in the care of the local Assassin Headquarters…

Ezio's quill strays off the paper at the noise Desmond makes on the bed, quiet and unhappy. The young man is fast asleep now, and has been breathing quietly and calmly, until this very noise. He's still lying where he laid down, with his legs hanging off the edge, Altaïr's robes hanging around them as they part and close, uncertain.

Ezio looks at him and then cleans his quill quickly and stoppers the ink bottle, before approaching his lover. Desmond's eyes are hidden under the hood, but the skin of his face is tight with unhappy tension and his lips are pulled into a grimace.

He murmurs in a language Ezio doesn't know and turns his head away, drawing a sharp breath and then holding it, as if bracing himself in his dream against some threat, or an oncoming blow, or pain.

"Desmond," Ezio murmurs, reaching for his face, stroking his hand down the side of it, turning his head back. "My dearest, wake up – you are dreaming."

Desmond murmurs something, and his hand grips at nothing – his right hand, the one still marked with the Precursor's magical technology.

Knowing how dangerous it is to roughly wake a sleeping Assassin, especially one in throes of a nightmare, Ezio considers his lover and then reaches for his right hand. It fights against his hold, trying to press down, but Ezio lifts it – and then, gentle, kisses it.

"It is nothing but a bad dream," Ezio murmurs, pressing kisses on the white knuckles, on the back of his hand, on his clutching fingers, until they finally loosen and Ezio can kiss his palm. "Whatever things you dream of, they can not hurt you – you are safe. I am here."

He trails kisses down Desmond's wrist until the fabric of his robe gets in the way, and then moves his attention elsewhere, keeping his touches gentle and light and very suggestive. Desmond eases slowly, almost confusedly in his sleep, and only wakes by the time Ezio is rubbing his palms strongly up and down his tense thighs.

"Mgh?" Desmond startles, rising to lean on his elbows and then looking at him, confused.

"A nightmare, my love?" Ezio asks quietly.

Desmond blinks at him for a moment and then looks around. "What?" he says.

"You were dreaming," Ezio comments, rubbing his thighs once more before moving over him. "It looked unpleasant."

"Um," Desmond says and blinks at him. "You could've just shaken me or something if I was making noise."

Ezio gives him a look and then presses a kiss to his forehead. "You have bad dreams so often."

Desmond sighs, reaching a hand to touch him and then letting it drop. He doesn't say anything, looking embarrassed and annoyed.

Ezio considers him and then presses a kiss to his downturned lips. "There is a hammam not far from here, which the Assassins here may frequent safely – the manager is an ally and a good man. It is quite soothing," he says. "Would you like to join me there? It has been some days since we had a bath."

"… a _public bath,_ Ezio?" Desmond asks flatly. "You are _shameless_."

"Bath only, dearest," Ezio smiles, and kisses him again. "There is a heated pool which I have been told is rather like a hot spring – it is quite enjoyable, and I think you would like it. And if we feel like it, later… we do have a private room here."

"In a building full of sneaky Assassins."

"Well…"

Desmond looks at him, eyes low lidded with sleepy weariness and exasperation both. Then he sighs and shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, why not" he agrees. "But if we end up in a linen closet or something, _I told you so_."

"You think me so without restraint?"

"Remember that time, beneath the hay cart, remember that, Ezio? Because I remember that, I think I still have bruises from that one."

Ezio clears his throat. "We were weathering the rain," he says with some dignity. "And you _enjoyed_ it. Honestly, I think you enjoyed it more than I did – those bruises are entirely your own doing."

"Not really helping the case here," Desmond sighs and pushes to get up. "Well, it's not like I've got much of a reputation to lose here. Let's go."

They don't end up in a linen closet – the hammam doesn't even have a linen closet.

It does have a private massage parlour though, and Desmond looks quite fetching, pinned against its door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the honeymoon is over. 
> 
> ... no, not really, there is more smut to come.
> 
> Also, after this chapter the fic's name is going to change to Catching Heat, suggested by Lanelle


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and even more smut

They stay in Acre for three days, and what three days they are. The city is in a state of uneasy tension with the Byzantine Templars' presence, and as the days go by, it becomes more and more obvious that they are indeed searching for Ezio. Desmond, at least, had escaped the notice of the Templars – they had left no witnesses alive in Masyaf – but the word of Ezio getting into the Library had gone out before they had moved to leave the place. Now, it seems, the word has it that Ezio had indeed retrieved something from the Library – and whatever it was, the Templars want it.

But though Desmond had escaped the notice of the Templars, it was the Assassins who grew increasingly more and more curious about him. Though they were discreet in their amour, Ezio could not bring himself to be dishonest in his treatment of Desmond, and so it is markedly different from how he treats other Assassins. He has never, until now, taken another Assassin to bed. And Ezio's efforts to repair Desmond's gear and supply him with proper weaponry do not go unnoticed either.

"They still use hidden blades in your time?" he questions, while Desmond tests his new bracers, tracing his fingers over the imbedded pistol.

"Not like this," Desmond admits. "I mean, I had one, but… we don't add guns or poisons on them anymore."

"You have given up on using varied ways to perform the kill?" Ezio wonders.

"No, it's just that firearms got to the point that sniper rifles kind of trump everything else," Desmond admits and casts him a glace. "Where I come from, you can accurately shoot a man from nearly thousand yards away. It's just safer and more practical and puts fewer assassins at risk."

"I see," Ezio says, frowning a little. "Impersonal way to commit such an act."

"That's kind of the point, I guess," Desmond muses and flicks his wrists, letting both hidden blades stick out. "I prefer these, though. Thank you, Ezio."

"They look well on you," Ezio muses with some satisfaction. "I assume you have no trouble with their varied uses?"

Desmond smiles slightly and tugs the blades back in. "I learned from the best."

"Indeed," Ezio murmurs, smiling.

He gets Desmond, along with the blades, a full assortment of other weapons to fill his complement. Throwing knifes, poisons, smoke bombs, and enough gunpowder and bullets for the imbedded pistol. There are thankfully some pieces of leftover armour at the Acre Bureau, which the Dai gives to Desmond free of charge – and though battered and well used, it suits Desmond and eases something of Ezio's concern for him. Desmond only had some old chainmail before.

It is nothing Ezio hasn't done for his Assassins before – in early days of the Brotherhood in Rome, he often took his students out to be fitted for armour and weaponry personally, taking great pride in seeing them set up properly. That task had fallen to the younger Master Assassins as their numbers had grown, however, and it has been years since he had a personal hand in gearing someone up like this. Ezio takes care now, though, and it's another tally in the record of unusual things about Desmond, no doubt, in the minds of the Assassins of Acre.

It is only inevitable that he should get cornered and questioned out of Ezio's view – and he is, when Ezio does the terrible mistake of visiting the harbour alone, to pay for their passage to Rhodos.

How the discussion goes, Ezio doesn't know – he misses most of it. He knows how Desmond looks at the end of it, though, as it is still going when he comes back – bored and unaffected by the frustrated Assassins around him.

"… us something, surely," one of the Assassins, a novice, is saying. "Travelling with the Mentor as you do – you must have stories."

"Eh," Desmond answers.

"He favours you greatly," another Assassin, a female of about Desmond's age, says, leaning in and tenderly touching his arm. "You must have done something… _remarkable_ to earn the Mentor's favour. Come now –anyone would brag…"

"Uh-huh," Desmond answers, his eyes turning to her.

The lady smiles, winding her hand around his arm, arching ever so slightly towards him. "I would very much like to hear how you managed such a feat," she says, pitching her voice lower. "It must be quite the tale."

Ezio watches from behind the corner, interested. She is quite a beautiful woman, dark with startlingly pale eyes, her hair a storm of curls – and the manners of a former courtesan. She is using their gifts too, tilting her head so, angling her neckline so – even with armour she wears there's enough of a neckline to hint at a bosom to draw a man's eyes. Certainly Ezio himself would be caught, happily so, by such an approach – especially so since it does not seem to be only seduction for the sake of information. The woman is quite obviously taken by Desmond's looks.

She is not the only one either – Ezio has noticed Desmond drawing interest without even making the effort to invite the admiration. His height, the long, clean features – surely Desmond's lips alone can turn heads and as they are often the only part of his face not left in shadow by his hood, their beautiful definition is often the first thing one sees of his face. Both the men and the women in the Acre Bureau have been giving Desmond some considering looks – all the more clear to Ezio by the fact of how rarely he himself nowadays draws them.

Not that he does not, at all – oh, it still happens. Just… not quite as often or as readily as it happened, ten years ago.

Assassins are not a terribly prudish lot, as a whole. Ezio might have some hand in that – he certainly had never encouraged chastity, and in his mind any man and woman who gave themselves to the grim work in the shadows should seek to counterbalance it with any pleasure and joy they might desire. It might even be a requirement – for to live a life for nothing but the kill alone would surely drive any person mad. And so, though Machiavelli and the older Assassins from time before his Mentorship had not quite approved, Ezio had encouraged a certain level of hedonism, and though he had never partaken in such activities with other Assassins – difficult thing to do without putting his authority into question… he knows many Assassins enjoy the time together.

It is perfectly common for Assassins to approach each other, and partake in each other, in such ways. He cannot fault them for approaching Desmond – in their position, he would have done the same.

"Perhaps," the Assassin is saying, her voice now a sultry purr, "We might find a room in private and discuss it? I would very much like to hear the things you have seen… and done…"

The suggestion is so blatantly obvious that a deaf man could have heard it. Desmond looks at her, swaying a little as she leans into him, and around them the other Assassins are throwing up their hands in a good natured defeat, leaving her to her conquest.

Ezio watches, curious, how Desmond's face does not change.

"Sorry," he says then, apologetic. "I don't think so."

"Oh?" the woman asks, giving him the most effective pout, her lips gleaming lush and tempting. "No?"

Desmond smiles a little, detaching her arm. "No."

Ezio wonders if he'd been spotted – Desmond does have the Gift – but the young man isn't looking his way as he leans back against the side table, eying the woman who is now awkwardly unsure what to do with her hands. Then, embarrassed, she turns and stalks away, leaving Desmond looking after her with a wry smile and a shake of his head, and apparently no regret whatsoever.

It is not the only time Ezio spots Desmond being approached or courted – several Assassins try it, sometimes while he's right there. Suggestive looks, touches, nods of the head, meaningful glances towards available rooms when Desmond was in vicinity… by the third day, it's starting to look like something of a challenge has been issued on the Assassins of Acre, and whoever beds Desmond the first wins the prize.

Desmond is definitely not helping the matter, for in company he is quiet, attentive and just teetering on the edge of withdrawn and mystifying. It's a side Ezio has not seen in his love – side which most certainly does not apply to him – and it's altogether fascinating and amusing, watching him rebuke advances without a hint of regret.

"You are turning down quite a few promising offers," Ezio comments late at night. "I do hope you're not restraining yourself on my account."

"Ezio, for fuck's sake," Desmond sighs, and throws his head back and against his shoulder. Ezio watches the movement of  his rather prominent Adam's apple – something which too has been a source of admiration of many these last days – and then mouths at the side of his neck, at his ear, smiling – thrusting his hips short jabs, enjoying the frustrated gripping of Desmond's body, how he tightens and writhes and -

"I would not take offence, dear," Ezio murmurs. "You are young, you should enjoy it."

"S-shut up," Desmond groans, spreading his legs and getting his feet on the mattress enough to get leverage to push down – and then they don't talk at all for a while, Ezio laving Desmond's neck with attention while rubbing his fingers around his tightened groin while Desmond writhes down on his cock, an embodiment of needy frustration.

Ezio brings him over the peak eventually with his hands, with Desmond's body stretched long and glorious over him, his back to Ezio's chest. The access it gives is delightful, even if it makes penetration shallower – but judging by how Desmond reacts to it, teetering on the verge of _mewling_ in desperate pleasure, it is a good angle for him.

Desmond comes, clutching him with his body and arching above him, glorious and firm. Ezio chuckles in his ear and milks him dry – and then stays within him, still hard, nowhere near ready to finish himself.

"I mean it, dear," Ezio says while Desmond gasps for a breath. "I wouldn't mind." Though Desmond sometimes takes a little teasing to get going, his appetite for pleasure is no smaller than Ezio's – and his rate of recovery is far greater.

Desmond swallows, his cheek sweaty and hot where it is pressed against Ezio's, the sweat of his back transferring to Ezio's chest hair. He is still clenching around Ezio periodically, as his body settles. "I know you wouldn't mind," he sighs. " _I_ don't care."

"Then –"

"I mean – I don't care. About them," Desmond says and breathes out, half embarrassed and half laughing. "And I can't really even do anything if I don't care."

Ezio blinks at that. "I'm sorry?" he questions, winding his calloused fingers around Desmond's hot, still twitching length – despite the orgasm, he's still easily halfway to a full hardness, and Ezio knows from experience how easy he is to tease back to full. "Is this a… personal preference? A religious practice of some sort?"

"It's a – mental thing," Desmond says and looks at him. "I can barely even get it up if it's someone I don't care about. It's just - not the same," he sighs and looks away. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it's weird and embarrassing, shut up."

Ezio wraps his fingers around him and pumps slowly. Desmond lets out a quiet gasp at that, shifting his hips – it's in part tortured and in part relieved.

"You don't seem to be having any issues now," Ezio comments, a little bewildered. Desmond gets hard at the mere sound of his _voice_ , he is the furthest from a man with issues in the bedroom, surely.

"Yeah, well, it's _you_ ," Desmond groans and closes his eyes, swallowing again. "Shit, Ezio –"

Ezio stares at the side of his face, and then looks over Desmond's heaving chest to where he is gripping the young man's cock in his fist. "Interesting," he murmurs, not sure how to feel. Of course, he knew Desmond's adoration was a very firm thing, but this…

Not that he thinks he would have enjoyed knowing Desmond was making love to another. Though not a jealous man by nature, he has some... _claim_ here, with Desmond. But at the same time… he is so much older than Desmond. Such a tryst would have been fine if it was only that – but at two weeks and countless sessions of lovemaking, can this really be called a tryst?

Ezio kisses Desmond's neck again, conflicted and a little sad and and guiltily pleased, all at once.

"Don't let it get to your head, it's big enough as it is," Desmond sighs, reaching down and past Ezio's hands on him, feeling around where their bodies combine. "Fuck, why is this so fucking hot?"

"Oh, is it?" Ezio murmurs, letting himself be distracted by it – he's learned enough of Desmond's odd colloquialisms to know the words he relates to lovemaking. "You like me just resting inside you, my dear?"

Desmond grounds his body down on him and sighs, fingers winding around the stretch. "Ah, fuck, _yeah_. Fuck, this _hurts_ and I am going to feel this for days, and I still don't want you to ever move. And I _know_ this is not a kink for me – how are you making all the things I never liked so hot?"

Ezio chuckles. "Apparently by being myself," he murmurs. "I would not mind staying like this a while longer. You feel delicious around me, clenching so desperately, sucking me in – it is as if your body _needs_ me, darling," he breathes. "Needs my cock so desperately –"

"Shit, we're doomed," Desmond groans in despair, shifting so that Ezio slides a fraction deeper and then just staying there, breathing unsteadily and shaking in barely restrained ecstasy.

The lovemaking has been getting absurdly good, Ezio has to grant that. Where he by all rights should have grown bored by now, no time with Desmond is the same. There is always something new, something exciting, and all of it is just so lovely. Even now it feels like they've barely scratched the surface of each other's sexual tastes, and already Ezio can count good five acts of obscure pleasure he's committed with Desmond that were utterly unknown to him before.

This too is new – for who would enjoy such pain as to simply hold a man's manhood inside their body and not grow sore? Only Desmond is undoubtedly sore. And _enjoying it_.

"Do you like pain, my love?" Ezio breathes.

"No, I really don't, but –" Desmond whimpers, and his whole body clenches with sensation as Ezio scrapes his fingernails up the lines of his stomach, drawing red welts on his skin. "Ezio – _fuck_ –"

Ezio mouths the tendon on his neck and bites his ear and enjoys Desmond's pained, pleasurable writhing. "I'm afraid, my dear," he murmurs, "That we might have very well been made for each other."

Desmond whines in a complete, almost appalled, agreement, and throws his head up in a cry as Ezio begins fucking him in slow, intentionally torturous, thrusts. "One day," Ezio breathes hotly in his ear, biting the cartilage, "One day I will sit you on my cock and keep you there for _hours_ –"

"Fucking _doomed_ ," Desmond whimpers, and comes again.

* * *

 

The next day their ship calls, and with a minor tussle with Templars near the harbour, they leave Acre behind. Desmond boards the ship walking slightly funny, but at questioning looks he claims a turned ankle and then, despite all the offered seats, does not in fact sit down – Ezio would feel sorry for him, except he is too proud of himself to manage it.

The ship they take is a small merchant vessel, carrying mostly spices and tea, and well paying passengers. Ezio and Desmond aren't the only ones there – there are several Arabs on the ship, some Greeks and some Ottomans, most of whom take a look at their weaponry and keep their distance.

The Captain of the ship is delighted by them – the man knows Assassins, and only asks half a price, saying, "Only, should something _happen_ and there be trouble, I expect you will not sit idle in the meanwhile?" While giving meaningful looks at Ezio's swords and the knives and daggers at his belt.

"We will do our part in defence of the ship while on board, never fear," Ezio agrees. "We do wish to reach Rhodos without trouble as well."

"Good, that is very good," the captain says and claps him on the shoulder. "You are welcome aboard my ship any time, Brother – as are all your kin."

The words have the interesting effect of making some believe that he and Desmond are monks of some sort – some obscure brand of oriental warrior monks, perhaps. It is entertaining, listening to the rumour run through the obviously newer hands aboard the ship and how they affect the passengers, but Ezio has to dissuade them – it wouldn't do for falsehoods to spread about the nature of their Brotherhood, after all.

Desmond doesn't seem to care one way or the other – he takes the first opportunity to slink into their cabin and stretch himself out face down on the cot , grumbling of wanting something called a _painkiller_ into the pillows.

"Oh my dear, did I use you roughly?" Ezio asks when he comes to him later, with Desmond's share of the ship's rations.

"Screw you," Desmond groans and then jolts when Ezio touches his lower back. "Don't even _think about it_ , Ezio."

"I would not, darling," Ezio murmurs, pressing a kiss behind his ear. "Not while you are in such discomfort. But I have food – and if you feel like it, a soothing salve which might help."

Desmond looks up with a slightest glare. "What kind of salve?"

Ezio lets him examine his assortment of medicine, while taking great pleasure feeding his young, white-clad lover with dry bread and vegetables and pieces of salted meat. Desmond eats distractedly from his fingers, while considering the jar of salve suspiciously. "Do you know what's in this?"

"Aloe vera, among other things. Leonardo made it for me," Ezio says. "After using the Apple. I could not understand the explanation he gave for its making, but I find it soothes burns and sores."

Desmond eyes him warily and then tests the salve. "Fuck it," he says then and moves to get up.

"Let me," Ezio murmurs.

"If you can do it without getting revved up," Desmond says dubiously.

"I don't take pleasure in acts that give others pain," Ezio says quietly. "It was enjoyable while you were enjoying it, but if this is the aftereffect, then I am deeply sorry for my actions. Please, dearest, let me soothe you."

"Tch," Desmond says and lets his head drop on the pillow. "Don't be – it was fantastic," he sighs. "Just – maybe not something to do often, yeah? Preferably not when travelling."

"I can agree to that," Ezio hums and eases Desmond's belts and sashes open, pulling his leg wear down until his firm behind is exposed. The noise the young man makes is full of discomfort when he eases his fingers past the seam of his buttocks towards the heated core of his loins, so Ezio takes utmost care, applying the salve around the entrance before, slowly, easing an oiled finger inside to apply it there too.

Desmond's obvious discomfort nearly robs the moment of all of its sexual nature – and yet, somehow, it is still viscerally pleasing. Even after causing such pain to him, Desmond still trusts him to do this, to see him so vulnerable.

"My dear," Ezio murmurs, kissing the dimples on his lower back.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ , Ezio, it seriously hurts," Desmond groans, squirming.

"I won't, of course I won't," Ezio promises, giving his fingers a twist and guiltily enjoying the shudder that runs through Desmond – and perhaps it is a _little_ thrilling, to have someone so weak and defenceless against such small movements of his fingers. A little shamefaced, Ezio pulls his finger slowly out. "Is that enough or do you require more?" he asks, pressing apologetic kiss on Desmond's skin.

Desmond breathes against the pillow, looking at him from the corner of his eye. His back flexes a little and then he relaxes momentarily. "Fuck you," he mutters and closes his eyes, sighing. "Yeah, give me more," he mutters, with embarrassed flush.

So it is not an enjoyable torture just for him. Desmond shivers and squirms under his touch through two more applications of the salve, occasionally pushing to his fingers with a whine of pained pleasure, until it finally becomes too much and he has to sob for Ezio to stop – by which time, Ezio is, much to his own shame, fully hard.

"Fuck, we are going to _ruin_ each other," Desmond breathes wetly against the pillow, his face red and sweaty and his body shuddering with the sensations. "Come here so that I can suck your cock, you absolute _asshole_."

"My darling, my most dearest love," Ezio murmurs hotly, loving how profane he gets when bothered. Eagerly kissing his way up Desmond's bared behind, over the fabric of his robes and leather bound metal of his armour, Ezio leans over him until he can slackly mouth at his neck, his ear, cheek, and finally reach for his mouth. Desmond allows the kiss only for a moment before all but dragging him into the bed and clawing through his clothes, himself not moving from where he is still lying on his belly.

No one has ever performed the act on Ezio with such frustrated anger before. Desmond takes his manhood like it has done him some injustice – which it arguably has, to Ezio's shame – and then devours it to the hilt, growling at Ezio all the while.

And that is how they begin their journey to Rhodos, which would last for several days and give them very little rest in the meanwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are honestly making each other worse.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And smut

It's late in the day that they arrive in Rhodos after a total of eight days in the sea. The journey from Acre had thankfully passed without any trouble throughout, aside from the usual smaller scuffles of seamen, who knew better than to involve men as heavily armed as Assassins into their personal strife. Thus Ezio and Desmond have had a fairly peaceful time of it, they even managed to avoid scandal for the most part.

Sounds carry aboard ships, and until Desmond, Ezio has not had a reason to strive for silence where nightly activities aboard sailing ships are concerned – he usually travels alone.

In either case, they are let off the ship late in the evening, to seek out a berth somewhere in the city of Rhodos by themselves while most of the other passengers stay, enjoying the hospitality of the ship's crew until morning rather than chance it on the shore. Ezio and Desmond could have stayed also, but…

They are Assassins, the night hardly frightens them.

"I'm guessing you've been here before?" Desmond asks while Ezio leads him towards the inn where he stayed the last time.

"Briefly, before my journey to Acre," Ezio agrees. "The ship I took stopped at Rhodos for two days for repairs to the mast – there was a storm we weathered a week before. I took the opportunity to familiarise myself with the island, as much as the Knights of Rhodos let me."

"Knights of Rhodos?" Desmond asks and Ezio nods towards the Kastello, the Palace of the Grand Master.

"I suppose you would know them as Knights Hospitalier," Ezio says. "They govern the island and have done so for the past two hundred years. Thankfully they no longer align themselves with the Knights Templar, as far as I know. Nor do they mind visitors, as long as those visitors know to behave themselves."

"So not attacking random knights in the night?" Desmond asks with a slight smile.

"No, we better not," Ezio agrees with an answering smile and looks ahead. The city of Rhodos isn't very big, but its fortifications are sure impressive – as is the force of military on its streets. It is indeed not a place one should make trouble in for no reason – and oddly, it's something of a relief. Acre had not been the most secure of states, and the streets had been restless – Rhodos enjoys a relative calm in comparison.

The inn Ezio had favoured last time and favours this one as well is one of the nicest ones in the city. Though normally he would save the coin and go for something a little less extravagant, this is the place in Rhodos where ship captains and wealthy merchants usually stay, which makes it an ideal place to stay when looking for a ship – if, of course, you have the money for it. Which Ezio, thanks to the Byzantine Templars back in Acre, once more does.

The opportunity to show Desmond's something a little more lavish than they have experienced recently isn't exactly unwelcome either. Even if Assassins of Acre stay in better quarters than they used to in Altaïr's time, is so little in comparison to how the well-to-do and those they favour treat themselves.

There are other patrons at the inn – most notably a party of wealthy-looking Ottomans, who will probably be their best chance of finding a ship. There are also some locals, as well as Spaniards and even some Italians, though most of the clientele seems to be Greek.

Ezio motions Desmond to find a seat while approaching the counter to book them rooms.

"Apologies, sir – we haven't two rooms left, only the one," the owner of the inn says, apologetic. "If you would like, I can forward you to another establishment."

"No, one room will do fine – and if you had any word of outbound ships, I would appreciate it greatly," Ezio says and takes out his money purse.

"Where are you bound, sir?"

"Constantinople."

"Ah, sir, you're in luck. Captain Mehmed over there is bound for Konstantiniyye," the manager says, "And I am sure he said he still had space on board for passengers."

"Grazie, I will ask him," Ezio nods. "Now, the room? And I would like a meal for myself and my companion, we are fresh off the ship."

"The one from Acre, yes? How are things in the former Holy Land?"

"Restless," Ezio says. He exchanges a few more words with the man and then pays for the room and the food and then, at the man's offering, for a bath as well. Then he goes to talk to Captain Mehmed concerning his ship.

"Just two of you?" the captain asks. "If you don't mind a cramped cabin, I'm sure we can fit you in – for the right price."

"I'm sure it will be quite alright," Ezio agrees, eying the party of Ottomans at the man's table. Some of them look like sailors from his ship, others like merchants. One, a young man with short hair and fine ottoman robes, is giving him an especially thoughtful look, taking in his robes – he looks like he might recognise them. Knows Assassins perhaps? They have something of a presence in Constantinople, from what Ezio knows.

Ezio glances him over and then haggles price with the ship's captain, until it's reasonable and he doesn't wince to pay it. Ezio pays their berth, bids the gentlemen a good night and then turns to return to Desmond.

The young man had found a seat by the windows and is watching the last of the sun's light vanish over the horizon over the red tile rooftops. Ezio sits across from him, shifting his sword out of the way of the chair before stretching out his legs. "Our ship leaves tomorrow at noon," Ezio says. "We might sleep in, or take in the city if you'd like."

Desmond casts him a look and then looks outside again.

"What is it?" Ezio asks.

"In this last month I've done more traveling abroad than I thought I would ever get to do," Desmond admits. "Acre, now Rhodos, next Constantinople… where I come from, this is kind of the height of luxury. It's just – a bit weird for me. This place is like a holiday destination," he murmurs and lurches his voice lower. "And I'm here in the _middle_ of history."

Ezio considers him. "You have never been in those places before? You only lived in – the New World?"

"Yeah. Until I was taken to Rome, anyway," Desmond says and leans his chin to his palm, giving him a considering look. "I have been to Monteriggioni, though. Lived there for a while, actually."

Ezio is entirely unprepared for the quick twinge of pain that brings forth. Monteriggioni was still mostly in ruins the last he'd visited, no one had properly settled in, no one had claimed it – the papacy's decree still held people back, even with the Borgia long gone. He honestly isn't sure if it's better or worse.

"So, the town still stands," Ezio murmurs. "The villa?"

Desmond gives him a sympathetic look. "It's still there, though mostly in ruins. We lived in the sanctuary under it – it stayed sealed up until I got there."

"You unsealed it? No one else gained entrance?"

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "I got your message there. The code."

Ezio frowns. He'd never been entirely sure why he'd done it. After hiding the Apple under Santa Maria in Aracoeli, it seemed so important to leave the key to the entrance of that Vault somewhere – but why that place had to be Monteriggioni, by then seven years abandoned, he had not known.

"I left it for you," Ezio murmurs.

"I assumed so, yeah," Desmond agrees, looking at him. "You didn't know?"

"No, I think I did, but – I was never certain," Ezio says, leaning back a little. "Seems like we have been conversing longer than I realised."

The look Desmond gives him is fond and a little sad, and thankfully mostly hidden in his hood as that is when a maid brings them their meals. The cuisine is clearly ottoman in design, consisting largely of rice, but it looks appetising nonetheless, after the dry food on board the ship.

They tuck in a comfortable, if a very thoughtful, atmosphere, while Ezio ponders on the mysteries of their intertwined destinies and Desmond looks outside, enjoying the darkening scenery.

"Would you like to go outside and look around some more?" Ezio offers. "There are a few towers here that I climbed the last time, and I found the view to be most pleasant."

Desmond chews through last of his dolma and then nods in agreement. "I'd like that."

They take first to the streets of Rhodos and then to the roofs, circling around the watch of the Knights of Rhodos and scaling their way up the highest roofs and tallest towers. Ezio enjoys the activity after the week and more on seas and sighs with some relief as on a reach for a high ledge his spine cracks and some of the cramped tension eases.

Desmond makes his way to the rooftop ahead of him and pulls Ezio up the last of the way, smiling a little as they come face to face again. "Can't keep up, old man?"

"You wound me so," Ezio sighs and rubs at his back. It feels better, and the stretch and activity of climbing had helped, but there's a new crick there he does not enjoy. "Oh, this used to be easier," he murmurs. "Would that we could all stay young forever."

How had age crept up on him anyway? Wasn't it just a year ago that he was climbing the towers of Venice and falling recklessly in her canals? What happened to the decades in between?

Desmond frowns a little at that and looks down. Then he smiles. "You have dozens of towers in you yet, and I know for a fact that you're in amazing shape for your age," he says, consoling.

"Not as flattering as you might think, dearest," Ezio scoffs. "For my age. Bah."

Desmond grins at that, looking mysterious and fey-like under the shadows of Altaïr's hood – then he kisses Ezio, soft and teasing. "Thank you for bringing me here, Ezio," he says. "Even if it took you some effort."

"My love, I am going to throw you down this rooftop," Ezio grumbles, but leans in for another kiss, tasting Desmond's laughter and smiling despite himself.

They sit down on the rooftop and watch the town below for a while, soon lit only by the light of the moon and stars and what little light screens through people's windows. Desmond draws a deep breath and sighs. "This is nice," he says.

"I'm glad you like it," Ezio says. "Though I am sure it doesn't compare to your New York."

"New York is a hellscape," Desmond says. "Loud and full of concrete and no one has time for anything. And the view is just – oh look, another building blocking the skyline, how nice," he snorts. "Nothing like this."

Ezio hums, sympathetic. "At least the stars are the same, I assume," he asks, winding his hand in Desmond's.

"Nope. Light pollution blocks them out – haven't seen the stars like this since leaving the Farm," Desmond admits. "I like it here much better."

"Then I hope Constantinople will also be to your liking," Ezio says.

They stay on the tower rooftop for a while longer, enjoying the ocean breeze and the scenery until it gets far too dark to even see it. Then make their way down the Assassins' way, taking a Leap of Faith and saving themselves the hassle of climbing down.

Ezio's back does not agree with any of it, and by the time they reach the inn again he's rubbing his back and wincing.

"We should have stretched and warmed up properly before setting out," Desmond says, giving him worried looks. "Are you alright?"

"A hot bath and rest will do me right," Ezio grumbles. "But you are right, next time I think stretching beforehand might be in order."

Desmond makes a sympathetic look. "How about a massage later?"

Ezio casts him a look. "Well, I won't say no to it," he says and sighs. And here he was hoping to make the night romantic, seeing as they had only the one night to spend how the wished before being bound aboard the ship for several days again. Well, maybe in Constantinople then – not that he really needs to ply Desmond with romance and luxury, the young man is very easy for him.

Sometimes, though, Ezio wants to. But apparently fates and the cruel grasp of time are against him.

They take their baths – but they turn out to be sitz baths alone and the water is lukewarm at best. Desmond still takes time to wash Ezio's back, massaging his fingers deep into Ezio's muscles and easing the pain a little.

"You have an amazing back," Desmond murmurs, pressing kisses on his spine. "The fucking shoulders on you – and your waist –"

Ezio sighs into his greedy touches – something he would ordinarily enjoy and wholeheartedly encourage. He knows he has quite wide shoulders, made only seem wider by how his waist tapers down – it's been admired by many over the years, and so far neither old age nor injuries have done anything to diminish the silhouette he makes…

But the persistent ache of his back makes it difficult to enjoy Desmond's touches. He feels his years acutely and miserably, and if he tried to have Desmond tonight, he knows it would be a most abysmal failure on his part.

"My dear, come here," Ezio murmurs, reaching back to take Desmond's hand from his back. Desmond comes, moving to sit on his knees in front of him, but Ezio urges him to stay standing. This way, Ezio, sitting on a stool, is at the eye level with Desmond's loins, with the stiffening member which perks further in interest as Ezio licks his lips.

Desmond doesn't say anything, watching first with interest and then in wordless amazement as Ezio urges him to stand between his knees and tugs his hips gently closer. Desmond smells of clean water and soap and tastes less like himself than he usually does – but there's a sweetness to how clean he is, which Ezio hardly minds.

"Ezio," Desmond sighs, swaying into him, as Ezio urges him into a gentle rhythm, stroking the base of Desmond's length with one hand while moving his mouth gently over the rest, taking what pleasure he can from the feel and heat of him and the quiet sounds of enjoyment he makes.

Desmond obviously likes it, humming and murmuring encouraging filth under his breath, "Fuck, Ezio, that's good – come on, suck me, yeah, shit, that's it –" but even with that thrilling crudeness, Ezio can feel how careful he is, keeping to the pace Ezio set and not trying for more.

Desmond's hands come to stroke at his head and for a moment Ezio wonders, with a morbid sort of thrill, what it might feel like if Desmond gripped his hair and fucked into his mouth at full force, forcing his long cock down Ezio's throat, choking him on it. He's wondered about it before, when feeling Desmond swallowing around him and groaning at the sensation, at the invasion – and how gloriously hoarse he gets afterwards… Desmond so loves the sound of his voice, how would it thrill him to be the cause for its ruin?

But so far Ezio can't even attempt it without gagging and almost hurting himself in the process, and of course Desmond would never do something like that, and as interesting at the thought is, Ezio is glad of it. Still, one day...

Alas, even these filthy musings aren't enough to distract him from the ever-present pain of his back, and by the time Desmond grips his hair gently in warning and then comes into his mouth in by now familiar burst of wet bitterness… Ezio is still pitifully soft.

"I fear I will be little use for you tonight, my love," Ezio murmurs, stroking Desmond through the last of his shuddering release, catching the rest of it in his palm.

Desmond draws deep, calming breaths for a moment and then pulls back, shakily going down on his knees and reaching to kiss him, still panting lightly. "Maybe it's time I'll be of use to you in turn," he says. "Come on, Ezio – let's finish here and then head up and see what I can do about that back."

Ezio gets up with a groan, and together they finish washing, before leaving the bathing chamber for servants to clean and ready for the next customer.

Their room is small, but compared to ship quarters lavish, with carpets and curtains and bed fit for wealthy nobles. After checking that the room is secure and the walls thick enough to muffle sound, Ezio stretches out on the bed with a groan while Desmond pilfers through his medicine pouch, coming away with their usual oils – and the salve of Aloe Vera.

"Are you sore again?" Ezio asks worriedly – they had made love the night previous and while it hadn't been.. quite as prolonged as that night in Acre, Desmond seems to have developed a taste for holding him within himself past both their releases, and Ezio was ill willing to forbid him such simple pleasure. Especially so, since it was rather pleasurable to him as well.

"No, I'm fine," Desmond says and comes to him. "It's for your back. Turn around, Ezio, lie on your front."

Ezio turns with a sight, but – no, it's not good, his back complains the new arch of it and with a groan he rolls again to his back. "I'm sorry, dearest, it aches worse that way," he sighs. "I'm sure I will be fine just with some rest."

"Are you seriously turning down a massage?" Desmond asks and slaps him lightly on his bare thigh. "Come on. Get up - we'll try it with you sitting up."

The massage Desmond gives does help some, as the young man rubs his fingers into the muscles at each side of Ezio's spine and does what he can to alleviate the tension there. It does feel better, and Ezio feels much less wound up afterwards… but the pain persists and Ezio can't help but wince as Desmond feels at the spine itself, fingers pressing in at each side.

"It doesn't feel damaged, but I think you seriously might've thrown out your back a bit there," Desmond murmurs worriedly.

"It's not as severe as that," Ezio assures him, driving a hand over his lower back. "I'll be fine tomorrow, you'll see."

"And in the meantime you're hurting," Desmond says and wraps his arms loosely around Ezio's shoulders, resting his chin gently over his shoulder. "You know, orgasms are a natural pain reliever."

Ezio laughs at that. "Would that I could, my dearest, but I don't think I can manage it tonight," he says and clasps Desmond's arms gently. "Would my fingers do for you?"

"Ezio," Desmond says, and his tone is soft. "I'm not the one in pain here – and I'm serious."

Ezio looks away, starting to grow a little annoyed at this insistence. "I fear tonight I am a lost cause, Desmond."

"Would you let me try?" Desmond says. "Forget me, I got my rocks off and it was great – just let me try and make you feel better? Please?" He kisses Ezio's neck under the trimmed line of his beard. "If you don't like it, we can stop and call it a day."

Ezio frowns and then looks at him. Desmond looks back, teetering on the line of imploring, and finally Ezio gives in. "Fine," he sighs. "What do you have in mind?"

Desmond grins, kissing his cheek. "Let's make you comfortable, okay?"

It's a sort of pampering Ezio is frankly unused to receiving. At Desmond's insistence, he reclines on the bed in position where his back does not complain, the bedding pushed behind his back and a pillow under each knee. Desmond makes everything just so that in the end Ezio doesn't even feel like he's lying down – more like he's sitting reclined on a throne made of clouds.

Then, while Ezio tries to decide if this makes him feel like an old man being attended to by a caretaker or not, and whether he should put an end to this whole thing while he still has some of his pride intact… Desmond crawls between his slightly spread legs and takes his lifeless manhood between his lips.

It feels – pleasant. Desmond's mouth can never be anything but pleasant, and the sight of him on his knees in such a servile position is nice indeed, but… it stirs Ezio none at all. It's wet and warm and lovely, but the incessant thrum of back pain is greater and still chases Ezio's excitement away, like cold water being constantly dumped into a lovely hot bath.

In the end all he feels is wet, increasingly awkward and pathetic.

"Desmond," Ezio says, intending to draw him away before the embarrassment grows worse. Desmond gives him a look and then cradles his balls in his hand, squeezing gently with one hand while the other continues further down still. Ezio grunts, not sure how he likes it, but the look Desmond is giving him makes him ill willing to say no.

Then Desmond's fingertips graze over the furled entrance to his body and Ezio has to stop him.

"Desmond, please," he says. "I'm sorry, love, I know you mean the best, but this is _not_ working."

Desmond pulls away from his still wretchedly limp manhood and licks his lips. "Trust me, Ezio," he says. "Please."

His fingertips are resting against the hole, and Ezio isn't sure he's ever felt so aware of such a small touch – his whole body is alarmed by it, his heart thumping heavily. He can feel his heartbeat against Desmond's fingers, and that's – that's a new sensation and not one he's very sure about.

"I would love to take you, one day – but must it be now?" Ezio asks plaintively. "Now, when I'm already in pain?"

"Ezio," Desmond says. "Trust me. I'm not going to hurt you."

Ezio wonders how manly it would be to squirm away and make his escape. "Desmond, dearest –"

" _Trust me_."

Ezio releases a frustrated sigh and then gives up. It might as well happen. Something to remember Rhodos by. Hah. "Very well," he says and leans his head back, closing his eyes. "Be slow, my love – I have not done this before."

"What, never?" Desmond asks, sounding surprised, his fingers withdrawing. "I mean, with your libido…"

There's a slick sound, familiar and terrifying. Desmond is applying oil to his fingers.

"It never seemed like something I would enjoy," Ezio admits and covers his eyes with his hand and swallowing down the ridiculous fear. "You have been changing my mind on it, but –" He hadn't thought it would become an issue this soon, and definitely not like this.

"Mm. I'm not going to fuck you, Ezio," Desmond says.

"No?"

"No."

And then his fingers are back, wet and cool against Ezio's hot skin, circling the clenching entrance gently, smearing the salve around it. Ezio braces himself for the invasion, but Desmond instead rubs the skin between his entrance and his scrotum, pressing his thumb in and making a circling motion, which – oh, it would be quite nice, if what was to come wasn't making Ezio tight with nerves.

"Ezio," Desmond sighs, kissing his inner thigh. "Please relax. It will feel weird at first, but I'm not going to hurt you."

Ezio breathes in and out and tries, he sincerely does. He's far too old to be so nervous in bed, and he knows how well Desmond enjoys this act – it cannot hurt as much as he fears, surely? And Desmond actively enjoys causing himself pain with this, whining for Ezio past the point where it must be agony, so there has to be pleasure in this that trumps the pain, only Ezio cannot imagine it.

"Ezio," Desmond murmurs, soothing and soft against his hip. "My love, my dearest, my beloved, please, let me make you feel good, my dear, let me soothe you –"

The words, so unusual on Desmond's tongue, startle Ezio enough that his body briefly uncoils in sheer incredulity – and in that moment, Desmond shoves a finger in him.

"Oh, you son of a _bitch,_ " Ezio grouses, his body jumping at the sensation. It's not pleasant, it's far from pleasant, and there is really no other way to describe it other than as _having a finger up his ass,_  is there? Ezio cannot wrap his mind around the size of the invasion, only that it's there, Desmond's middle finger is inside him, and his body doesn't know how to take it.

"Ssh, shh," Desmond murmurs and twists his finger and – prods at his inside, crooking his finger. Ezio makes an aborted noise of uncertainty at the sensation, which makes Desmond only hum sympathetically and prod him _deeper._

Ezio squirms, be can't help it – how can anyone enjoy this? He loves that Desmond does, he enjoys making love to him, fingering him, but if this is what it always feels like –

"Tell me when," Desmond murmurs, kissing his loins while thrusting his finger deeper and crooking it again slowly.

"When _what,_ when I'd like you to stop?" Ezio grits out. "Because now would be a good ti-"

He stops, confused. Desmond's finger is pressing on something, and it's – different. It's – like Desmond is touching his cock, but on the inside and yet it's not like it at all. It's – oh –

"That's when," Desmond says, sounding satisfied, while Ezio teeters on the edge of bewilderment, his body quivering. Desmond's finger draws a circle around the _strangeness,_ and Ezio feels it throughout his whole body, an undeniable sensation that cuts even into the pain of his back and –

Ezio looks down, pushing himself up to his elbows, wordless in astonishment, as Desmond rubs on the spot, circles it, massages it with the gentlest of pressure until he cannot deny it.

It's _pleasure_ – a deep, visceral sort of pleasure that seems to come from his very core and is radiating throughout all the region Desmond has invaded and made his own – the strangeness and the burn of the invasion is still there, but the deep tease of pleasure is painting them in new shades, turning what was deeply strange into an odd pleasure.

Ezio's lips part, but he cannot speak, he can barely breathe. Desmond looks at him and withdraws his finger, and Ezio can feel his hips moving helplessly after it – and when Desmond gives it back to him with more salve to slick the way, Ezio collapses down, letting out a choked noise.

Time becomes a slow and sluggish thing, as Ezio's whole world seems to condense into the thrust of Desmond hand, the edge of his palm pressing over his groin as his finger prods and pokes, rubbing, rubbing, _rubbing._

He can barely hear it when Desmond speaks. "Ezio, can you lift your legs?" he asks. "Lift them up and hold them?"

Ezio only realises what he means when Desmond starts pushing at one of his legs with his free hand, urging it up. With a shudder, Ezio leans back and then lifts his legs, whining as it presses Desmond's finger somehow tighter into him. Soon he's all but folded over, his knees resting on his shoulders, his hands grasping at his thighs while Desmond moves on his knees.

"Christ, you're flexible," Desmond murmurs and Ezio closes his eyes, trying to calm his breathing down.

It's such a shamefully open position. Desmond could take his cock in hand and direct it into Ezio and he'd be in a bad position to stop him.

Instead, Desmond presses his finger to the spot of sweet sensation, and then he puts his mouth where his finger sinks into Ezio's body. His breath is hot, the closeness of his face makes Ezio squirm, and then there is his tongue, lapping around his finger, over Ezio's entrance, hot and slick where no one had touched him before.

Ezio throws his head back, breathless and stunned, and stares at the ceiling in shock – his pain all but forgotten now. His entrance feels swollen and hot and thoroughly wet, and he thinks – oh, he would really like Desmond to fuck him now.

Desmond doesn't – instead he fingers and licks him slowly and steadily into a sweet ruin, and Ezio is too helpless with the sensation to even beg for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New day new smut new tags


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? Smut

The next day dawns cloudy and windy, not altogether pleasant to look at but excellent sailing weather. Ezio and Desmond join Captain Mehmed's ship with the last of the passengers, by which time the ship is already prepared for launch and most other passengers have situated themselves inside their cabins.

"Oh, thank heavens, you don't have belongings," the seaman who shows them in says. "The lady came in with fourteen chests! Here, your cabin, gentlemen…"

"Lady?" Ezio asks with interest. "There is a noblewoman on board?"

"She certainly packs like one! But no, some Venetian heiress, I think," the sailor says and then nods his head. "Now I should be on deck – do you need anything else, gentlemen?"

Ezio glances the cabin – one narrow cot and a hastily erected hammock above it. Cramped quarters indeed – but at least they had been given a lantern and a chamber pot. "I think we stall be fine. Thank you, Messere."

The sailor nods and heads off, leaving Ezio alone with Desmond to inspect their quarters. There's barely enough space to turn, and the cot…

"I guess I'll take the hammock," Desmond says and he sounds subdued. Which, considering his earlier mood…

Ezio had woken up not quite sore, but… _aware_ of regions of his body he usually isn't so aware of. He still feels strangely tender, an echo of Desmond's touch lingering – it makes him occasionally shift his weight, uncertain of how he likes it, this reminder of how eagerly he'd bent, and Desmond had been watching him with a smug smile all morning.

"It's a tight fit, but I'm sure we can manage it," Ezio says, reaching to take his hands. "We've dealt with worse accommodations."

Desmond smiles a little at the insinuation, but it's distracted at best. Ezio frowns and then sits by the cot and – oh, he feels that, and as embarrassed as it makes him, it feels nice. Ignoring the sensation of _slickness_ that still lingers, Ezio takes Desmond's hands and pulls him in. "What's the matter, dearest?"

"It's nothing," Desmond says and sways into him with the roll of the sea beneath the ship's mass. "How is your back?"

"Much better, I promise," Ezio says, smiling but watching his face curiously. "I'm sure, if properly quiet, we can make fools out of ourselves many times on this voyage without any issue."

Desmond laughs a little at that and then leans down to kiss him. "I don't doubt that for a moment," he agrees against Ezio's lips, his kiss slow and lingering.

Ezio lets himself be distracted but keeps the moment in mind. Something has unsettled Desmond, and since it's not a danger he's eager to share, it's likely to be one of heart or mind and not the body.

* * *

 

The first day on board the ottoman merchantman passes by without an incident, as does the second. They are as if followed by a persistent cloud, and there's in turns misty rain and a complete outpour of water, both of which keep the passengers below decks. The ottoman ship captain, though he does have a dinner every night, does not invite them, favouring instead the ottoman passengers alone – and perhaps the mysterious heiress, whom Ezio never sees those first few days.

He does meet one of the ottoman passengers though, a familiar young man who is eager to converse about foreign lands. That's in fact how he comes upon the young man – Suleiman is talking to the Greek members of the ship's crew, flattering them with great interest in their home land, while the men eat.

"I have visited Athens once, it was quite a sight to behold," the young Ottoman says. "But a visitor's perspective is often so shallow compared to that of the local."

"You travel much?" Ezio asks curiously, while he and Desmond get their share of rations.

"Not, I think, as much as you do, going by your garb," Suleiman says. "You are Italian by your accent – Florensali?"

"Si, originally – more lately Roman, though I can't claim heritance," Ezio admits. "Are you a scholar?"

"A student yet, please – but I have appreciation of culture. Rome I have visited once – but not Florence," the young Ottoman says thoughtfully. "I would very much like to hear about it."

Ezio glances at Desmond, who shrugs his shoulders, and together they sit down to talk. While Ezio says the young Ottoman's curiosity about Florence, he asks questions of his own about Constantinople – Konstantiniyye – and the state of things there. It seems that the Byzantine Templars are already making a nuisance of themselves in the city, looking to resurrect the old Byzantine throne.

And likely to get their hands on the Masyaf Keys while they're at it.

"Your companion is quiet," Suleiman notes, considering Desmond who had been eating his food silently. "He does not speak Turkish?"

"Not even as badly as I do," Ezio admits, casting Desmond a fond glance. Desmond learned Italian from him and Arabic from Altaïr, but that did not stretch to languages learned later – only their native tongues were passed over. "Italian and Arabic only, I'm afraid."

"Arabic?" Suleiman asks and then nods to Desmond and says, in Arabic, "Greetings, my friend – your companion had been telling me of his homeland – are you from Florence as well?"

Desmond looks a little startled at being addressed and glances at Ezio. "I – lived nearby for a while," he says then. "But no, I wasn't born there."

"Where were you born then?"

Ezio watches Desmond squirm, obviously not wishing to lie, and smiles. "Far away," he says. "Lately we come from the Levant – from Acre, specifically. Have you ever been?"

"In Acre? No, but I visited Beirut not long ago – before Athens, in fact…"

While Ezio distracts Suleiman and the conversation turns from the Levant back to Greece and Spain, Desmond gets up and all but escapes before he can be questioned further. Ezio smiles and lets him go, turning to talk politics with Suleiman instead.

It's not the first time Desmond had slinked away from discussion that tries to question his origins and it will likely not be the last either. It's not the last time he disappears from an ongoing discussion aboard the ship either – though the second time is more marked than the first.

The clouds finally break up on the third day and the passengers finally dare to risk the open deck to take in air and sun. Ezio and Desmond do the same, as does Suleiman and his party – as does the mysterious heiress, whom they have not heard or seen.

Or whom Ezio and Desmond have not heard or seen, anyway – Suleiman already knows her. Like him, she had been invited to dine at the captain's cabin and so they'd already met.

"Ezio, Desmond," he says. "Please give me the very great honour of introducing you to a fellow Italian. I imagine you have not met yet."

"And, forgive me, I have been reading all the days away in my cabin," she says, smiling, "and haven't gotten out much."

And likely she had not wanted to anyway, as the only woman on a ship full of men. Even if some of those men were gentlemen and nobility like Suleiman most certainly was, it likely wasn't a very comforting atmosphere for any gentlewoman, especially one of some means, as this one must be.

"Well, it is still a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?"

"Sofia. Sofia Sartor," she says, holding out her hand.

Ezio smiles and kisses her knuckles. "Ezio Auditore da Firenze. It is quite something, to see a woman such as yourself traveling alone."

"Ah, there is nothing to it if you know what you're on about. I used to travel quite a deal when I was a young girl – this is nothing new to me."

"I'm sure your experience is most impressive, Sofia," Ezio says and then turns to introduce Desmond, only Desmond is not there. Frowning, Ezio glances around, but he's nowhere on the deck anymore – and Ezio hadn't even noticed him leaving his side.

"I'm sorry – I meant to introduce my companion, but –" Ezio says, confused.

"The young man? I saw him head below deck," Sofia says and smiles. "He looked a little ill – is he prone to sea sickness?"

"... No, he isn't," Ezio murmurs, and looks at her consideringly. She's a beautiful woman, in her third decade perhaps, well to do and obviously confident. A sort of woman who might catch anyone's eye – especially his own.

"I apologise for his part," Ezio says. "Desmond is new to ocean travel."

Sofia smiles, understanding. "Perhaps you should go and make sure he is alright."

"I think I must. Apologies, Sofia."

"It's quite alright," she says and turns to look at the ocean again. Ezio gives her another considering look and then heads below again, following Desmond's invisible trail back to their shared, cramped cabin.

Sleeping on the same cot had not worked, there was no way to fit their bodies in the narrow space comfortably without something digging somewhere unpleasant. Ezio had regretted the loss of intimacy, but never as much as he does now, finding Desmond in the hammock, stretched out with Niccolo Polo's journal in hand.

He doesn't even look up as Ezio closes the door behind him.

"Jealous, my dear?" Ezio asks.

The way Desmond's eyes still on the page is telling, as is how his eyelids lower as he looks away. "I wouldn't mind, Ezio."

"Yes, you would."

Desmond doesn't try to deny it, instead he sighs and drops the book on his own face, hiding underneath it. He mumbles something into the pages of the book, unintelligible and muffled.

Ezio steps closer to him and stills the swaying of the hammock with a hand. "What was that, Desmond?"

"That's her," Desmond says and looks up as Ezio lifts the book from his face. "That's her. The woman you marry. Sofia Sartor."

So. Not a regular case of jealousy.

Ezio looks away, frowning, thinking of the woman. He'd seen little of her so far, but the implication of more is there. Heiress, somewhat wealthy, traveling alone… yes he can see how that would catch his interest initially, but indefinitely?

"She owns the Polos' old trading post, turned it into a bookshop," Desmond says quietly. "One of the Masyaf Keys is hidden there – and clues for the rest are hidden in the books. Sofia is, obviously, good with books, so…. She can help you with that. You grow closer and –"

Ezio puts his fingers on his lips, silencing him. He's not thought of the supposed wife in a while – his hands and eyes are quite full of Desmond and he was happy with it, he wanted nothing else. "Could have, my dear," Ezio says quietly.

Desmond looks at him, frowning.

"Woman I could have married, in one life," Ezio clarifies. "I'm hardly going to do so now."

For some reason that makes Desmond grimace. "You had children with her – you were happy with her –"

Oh, that's a sweet notion, isn't it – children. "I won't deny that it sounds lovely," Ezio says and moves closer to him. "But I have you. I want for nothing more."

"Bullshit," Desmond says against his hand.

"You question my love for you?" Ezio asks, frowning.

Desmond sighs. "I don't doubt you like me, Ezio, but –"

But.

Ezio looks at him, uncertain how to take the hurt he feels. It's not a hurt he'd expected to feel, which makes it cut deeper still. And yet, he understands the cause – he's the one to blame for it, isn't he? He himself told Desmond he would not mind his infidelity, should he wish to pursue others – why should Desmond trust in his loyalty after that? Especially knowing that in one life, he had happiness and family with a woman… whom he just met.

Ezio trails his fingers down from Desmond's chin to his chest, unsure what to say. He said _my love_ with ease, but he had not realised how deep the feeling truly was, how close to the core it sat, not until now, not until he feels it inside him, aching.

He loves this man, this impossible, beautiful and entirely distracting man. And Desmond obviously doubts the sincerity of it. And why shouldn't he? The moment Ezio saw Sophia, his voice became a purr.

"Forgive me, I have done you an injustice," Ezio murmurs.

"I told you, it's fine," Desmond sighs, in a way that says it most assuredly is not fine. "Go back and talk to her."

"Not the injustice I meant," Ezio says and eases his weapon belt off, letting it clatter to the floor so that he can hoist himself onto the hammock and into Desmond's lap. The younger Assassin lets out a grunt of discomfort as the hammock rocks and sways, pressing him lower on it while Ezio's legs hang at each side of him.

"I love you," Ezio says seriously while Desmond looks at him warily. "I do – and I have somehow made the mistake of keeping you thinking I do not."

"Ezio," Desmond says, shifting underneath him. "Come on –"

"I love you, Desmond Miles," Ezio says quietly. "I don't want another. I don't want a wife, and children I have in plenty of my students and in their students. What I want is to wake up next to you years from now, secure in the knowledge that years from then it will still be so."

Desmond looks deeply uncomfortable, but he is also staring at Ezio with a wary hope.

"Why would I want her when I can have you?" Ezio asks quietly. "You who climbs towers with me, who fights my enemies with me, and who embraces me with passions I hardly know? Not a small feat, that, and you know it." He trails off and traces his hands down Desmond's chest. "I meant it when I said we might be made for each other. The gods themselves gave you to me."

"Not quite what happened," Desmond murmurs, his voice shaky. " _Ezio…_ "

"It's as close to the truth as anything," Ezio says. "And I love you. I love you. _I love you_ –"

"Okay, okay, shut up," Desmond says and covers his eyes with his hands. "Christ, I get it, alright? Shut up."

"Never," Ezio says and presses in. "I love you, my most dearest Desmond, I love how you can follow me without trouble to places no one else ever had, I love how you know parts of me I don't know myself, I love how you look at me, like I am your world, I love how at the end of the world one of your last thoughts were of me, I love –"

Desmond draws a hitching breath, wet and miserable, against his palm, " _Stop,_ " he begs.

"No," Ezio says and kisses the hands he's hiding behind. "I love how your hands are bigger than mine, I love how you touch me, I love how I feel when you touch me. I love how you listen to me but also talk back, how you don't fear me or follow me without question, and I love how at the same time you _revere_ me. I love your body, how long and narrow it is, I love your arms, your chest…"

Desmond gasps wetly, and when Ezio starts to tug his belts open and his robes off, Desmond lets him. Murmuring love into every part of Desmond, Ezio strips him piece by piece, as they swing on the hammock, which aside from that sway is surprising sturdy beneath their combined weight. Getting Desmond's hose off takes some manoeuvring, but Desmond is a limber man too, and Ezio manages to shift their positions so that Desmond's legs come over his and they are pressed groin to groin, Desmond still lying down.

Ezio runs his calloused, age worn hands over the smooth expanse of Desmond's skin, from chest to hips and over his strong thighs and then back up again. "I love all of you," he says. "It is a constant pain not to be always touching you."

Then, once Desmond can finally look at him with embarrassed flush and wet eyes, Ezio undresses himself as well, making sure Desmond is watching, displaying himself as much he can in such a position, giving as much of a show as he can. Desmond watches, desperate and low-lidded until Ezio takes his hand and presses it on his own chest.

"All of this is yours," he says. "My eyes might stray, I won't deny that, but this will not. It's yours."

"Ezio," Desmond murmurs and then pushes himself to sit up. It sends the hammock swaying and almost drops them both off it, but Ezio braces a hand against the cabin walls to keep them still while Desmond takes his face between shaking hands and kisses him, deep and possessive.

Ezio lets him take what he wants, keeping his hands braced on the walls as Desmond touches him, palming his waist, his ribs, his shoulder blades, his neck, shoulders, chest. Desmond is never precisely shy about touching him, but this urgency is new – and not unlike the desperation of someone thinking it would be their last chance.

"If I could, I'd marry you," Ezio breathes into his lips. "Desmond –"

"You're going to make me burst, _Christ_ – shut up," Desmond gasps and presses his face to Ezio's chest, breathing raggedly.

"I love you," Ezio murmurs into his hair. "I do. Please believe me."

Desmond drags his fingers down Ezio's back and draws another wet sob of a breath. Ezio looks at him and then eases his hands off the walls, now that they're no longer in danger of toppling over, and winds his arms around Desmond's quivering body. Softly the hammock swings, their bare feet hanging off it, brushing against the cot below.

It takes a while for Desmond to relax again, his breathing still wet and stilted, but the danger of tears passing. Ezio pulls back enough to look at him and stroke his face before kissing him, turning Desmond's head to it, deepening the kiss and putting all his feeling and intent into it.

"Alright, darling?"

"Yeah, once I don't feel this humiliated," Desmond murmurs and wipes his eyes. "Christ, I'm such a fucking _mess_."

"No, shh," Ezio murmurs and presses his forehead to Desmond's. "You are beautiful."

"You are full of shit," Desmond groans and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly. "Fucking _Christ…_ "

Ezio smiles at his emotionally exhausted vulgarity and gives him time to gather himself again, stroking his face and arms in the meanwhile. Desmond eases, and then the moment threatens to become awkward, as Desmond becomes increasingly embarrassed by his reaction, so Ezio kisses him and suggests, "Do you wish to make love?"

Desmond lets out a weak laugh. "Shit, that's our solution to everything now, is it?" he asks and then sighs. "Yes, please."

Ezio smiles and runs good fingers through Desmond short hair. "How do you want me, darling?"

"In my ass, preferably," Desmond snorts.

"Not the opposite?" Ezio questions and kisses him. "This seems like a suitable time."

"It's really _not._  When I fuck you, Ezio, I want to do it properly," Desmond sighs and leans back, lying on his back on the hammock with his legs spread and crossing over Ezio's back. "With time and preparation and preferably thick enough walls that we don't have to be quiet."

Ezio shivers at the implication, but acquiesces to it. Probably wiser than doing it now, in truth. "Brace your hands on the walls," he says, "I need to reach for my belt."

"Hmm," Desmond says and presses his hands on the walls, keeping the hammock fairly stable. Then he tightens his thighs around Ezio's hips, locking him in place so that Ezio can reach down without falling off the hammock. "Fuck," he murmurs quietly, watching Ezio bend.

Ezio grins. "Enjoy what you see, dearest?" he asks.

"One day, I'm going to bend you over sideways and fuck you all contorted, just to watch you twist like that," Desmond breathes.

Ezio shivers at the mental image and then straightens up with the bottle of oil in hand. "Perhaps something simpler for the first time," he says with a low chuckle

"Yeah – but one day," Desmond says and spreads out his legs.

Ezio takes his time fingering Desmond – something he now has greater appreciation for, having experienced it for himself. Desmond encourages it with soft sighs and slow breaths and murmuring, "A little bit further, almost there," and then with a delightful full-bodied shudder of pleasure, when Ezio finds what he's looking for.

He knows to be careful now too – the first time after the night in Rhodos, he'd pressed on that sweet spot in Desmond and he'd almost jumped off the cot in pain. The sensitivity of the little bump in Desmond's insides – and his own – is nothing like that of a man's member. Too much pressure can cause great pain that lingers – it had taken some time before Desmond had let him try again.

Now Ezio applies almost no pressure at all, watching how Desmond reacts carefully, how he stretches out and leans his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Beautiful, Ezio thinks, circling the spot slowly, watching Desmond harden to the pleasure. Like with himself, the deep touch makes Desmond leak eventually, his cockhead glistening as pleasure courses through him, seed beading and eventually dribbling down to his abdomen.

Ezio takes him in his free hand, spreading the moisture of Desmond's leakage over it and then using it to stroke him, in slow, long pulls.

"Gimme another finger," Desmond murmurs, his body open and quivering as he reaches for the wall behind his head for some purchase to thrust back into Ezio's hands. He can't quite manage it, the hammock gives him little leverage, but Ezio gives him what he wants, easing his finger out, adding more oil and then another.

By the time he has three fingers in Desmond, the young man is covered in layer of sweat, his cock has turned nearly purple with urgency and his entrance is slick and vividly red as it stretches around three Ezio's knuckles. It's a breathtaking sight - how could anything be better?

"I'm gonna come," Desmond sighs, his body a glorious stretch as he still braces himself against the wall.

Ezio releases his hold on Desmond's member and runs the dry backs of his fingers over the taut lines of his stomach in appreciation before pulling his slick fingers out of him, using his thumb to keep Desmond open. Waiting for Desmond to look at him, Ezio takes his own cock in hand, giving it a stroke and then aiming it to the wet, swollen gape of Desmond's sphincter, pushing ever so slowly in. The sight of him slowly spreading open before Ezio's girth is exquisite, but it has nothing to the feel of it. Desmond is so slick and swollen than it almost feels too easy.

Desmond's body closed around the head of Ezio's cock and they both sigh at it, Desmond needily and Ezio in enthralled appreciation. Curiously he tries pulling back a little, just to watch the movement of Desmond's slick entrance, how it for a moment refuses to give him up, the fringes of the head caught in the tightening sphincter, and Desmond's skin bulges ever so slightly outward instead with the movement of the flesh imbedded in him….

"Ezio," Desmond frustratedly, biting his lip to try and stay quiet.

"My beloved, you look glorious," Ezio breathes, stroking his cock with just the tip of it resting inside Desmond. "It takes my breath away. How does it feel?"

"Like you really need to _fuck me,_ you asshole, stop teasing and get on with it!"

"Of course, I'm sorry," Ezio breathes and then slowly pushes further in, enjoying every moment of it, watching himself disappear, bit by bit, in Desmond's hot body. Desmond groans before him and starts coming before Ezio is even halfway in, biting his lips and muffling desperate noises as he tries to grind his hips against Ezio and take him deeper.

With nothing to push from, Ezio doesn't have the leverage for thrusting, so he takes Desmond by the bend of his hips, his thumbs pressing against his hip bones, and pulls his body down and onto his cock, impaling Desmond completely and then holding there through the delirious clenching while Desmond writhes in the throes of his release, leaving his own chest and stomach stained with it.

"I love you," Ezio says gently, pushing Desmond's body slowly forward until only the head of his manhood remains in – and then dragging Desmond back onto his cock, grinding up and against that spot inside. "I love you, my dearest, _love you."_

Desmond squirms on his cock, gasping, and sobs out, "I love you too, Ezio, _fuck,_  I really do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this need new tags hmm.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And smut

The rest of the journey to Constantinople goes without any further issues, personal or otherwise. Desmond is a little withdrawn maybe, but that's nothing unusual for him – for obvious reasons he rarely talks with people, and when he does he tries to talk about them and not himself. Still, he did come out of their cabin and even interacted with Sofia Sartor for a time, apologising awkwardly for his behaviour, which she didn't even take offence of, unaware of the true cause.

Ezio for his part, though he first tried to keep his distance from the lady, settles on acknowledging her but not pursuing any meaningful conversation. Sofia doesn't seem to feel the lack at all, brushing him aside as another disinterested acquaintance and keeping to the company of Suleiman and her books.

Ezio watches her, for a time, wondering about the time that could have been, but… he doesn't feel any regret, or any particular wistfulness. The only thing he regrets is that there will be no children in his and Desmond's union, but it's a small price to pay for the chance to keep the young Assassin at his side.

"Not that I truly thought I ever would have children," Ezio admits to Desmond. "But now that the idea had been brought up, I can't deny it keeps coming to my mind."

Desmond says nothing, nudging his hand with his own, not quite risking holding it in such a public setting as the open deck of the ship.

"I suppose it's too late now anyway – I should have thought of having a family much earlier," Ezio murmurs. "Old man such as me –"

"You're not that old," Desmond snorts. "And, uh…"

"What?" Ezio asks.

"You – uh. You do have children, Ezio," Desmond says. "I mean. I knew a guy who descended from a kid you had sometime when you were younger."

Ezio blinks slowly. "What?" he asks then, straightening his back. "Who – where?"

"I don't know who the kid is in this time, sorry – the descendant was named Clay. He was – a friend. Sort of," Desmond says and shrugs. "I think they were born in Florence, though."

Ezio blows out a breath. Well, it's not as if he had not considered it – and quite honestly, if this mystery child is his only bastard, he'd be surprised. He did not have much restrain in his youth, and even in Claudia's tightly managed and scheduled Rosa in Fiore, courtesans finding themselves pregnant was sadly a common occurrence. There had been times when he looked at dark haired children in the backrooms of brothels he'd visited and wondered…

But he'd never dared to try and find out, the idea of bringing a child into the life such as his horrifying him beyond anything. Now, ten years later, twenty, thirty, he looks back at all the moments of panicked possibilities and thinks, _what a waste, what a sad terrible waste._

"If it was in Florence, the child is likely well into their adulthood," Ezio muses.

"Probably," Desmond agrees and looks at him, thoughtful, considering.

"Anything else I should feel terrible about in my own past?" Ezio questions, trying for humour which he doesn't quite feel.

"No, that's not – I'll tell you later," Desmond says as one of the sailors comes by close enough to overhear. "There is something I have been wondering about, though. Where did you live in Florence after – after everything? And Venice, you stayed there for years – where did you sleep?"

"What – something you do not know about my life? How unexpected.."

"For some reason no, I don't," Desmond admits. "In my experience, you never slept at all."

Ezio laughs at the double meaning of that and shakes his head. "Wherever I could. Leonardo's workshop, when he was kind enough to allow it. Rooftop gardens when it was warm and didn't rain. Abandoned buildings when it did. Brothels and inns when I had the money. In the gutters, if the day was particularly bad. People's hay carts and lofts and storehouses. It varied..."

"You didn't have a permanent place?" Desmond asks quietly.

"Not outside Monteriggioni, no," Ezio admits and looks at the ocean. They've entered the Dardanelles now, and the coastline is a tempting line of possibility in the distance – fooling some of the passengers to think the journey of almost over, though there is still a long way to go. "I suppose I didn't wish to risk settling down in places where I was likely to be forced to flee from sooner or later."

"I'm sorry," Desmond offers.

Ezio shakes his head. "It wasn't as hard a life as that," he says. "Our abilities make it easy to find safe places to sleep. I rarely felt lacking comfort, really – and I could buy it when I needed it."

He can't say he looks back to the nervous nights of huddling in the darkness fondly, though. When he'd not been twenty yet and the horror of tragedy and shame and homelessness were still so new, it was a bitter, terrifying sort of life to lead. He grew better at survival, learned to make the most of it, but those first years weren't easy.

Desmond leans his shoulder subtly against his own and Ezio sighs, shaking his head again. "Those days are long past me," he says, looking at him and smiling. "I'm quite satisfied with my life now."

"Good," Desmond says, and they watch the ocean pass them by in peaceful silence.

* * *

 

Eventually they come to Constantinople, and it's just as impressive everyone says. Ezio had once thought that Rome was large – but she doesn't hold a candle to the width and breadth of the Ottoman capital, with its tightly packed streets and endless field of rooftops.

They bid their goodbyes to Suleiman and Sofia at the harbour, where Suleiman's goodbye is warm and teasing and Sofia's distracted and busy as she turns to direct the men carrying her chests, of which she had indeed many and none of them look too light. Ezio spares her a last glance, searching for regret and not finding it before turning back to Desmond – and then, to Yusuf Tazim, the head of the Ottoman branch of their Brotherhood.

"Hoşgeldin, kardeşim!" the man greets him. "Unless the legend is a lie, you are the man I've longed to meet. Renowned Master and Mentor, Ezio Auditore," here makes a waving motion with his hand and finishes with, "de la la la."

" _Prego_?" Ezio asks flatly while Desmond snorts, badly muffled.

Yusuf turns out to be affable, if somewhat mischievous man, and thankfully not intentionally rude. His introduction to the city is as flamboyant as his greeting, but informative and warm nonetheless – and he didn't even bat an eye at Desmond, welcoming him as another brother and not asking more than that.

Ezio had of course sent a bird ahead to inform the Assassins of Constantinople of his arrival – from experience he knows that no one enjoys an  unannounced visit from their Mentor. Whether the headquarters of the Constantinople branch have gone through any special preparations is hard to say – the place looks quite cozy, for all that part of it seems to be built into half-collapsed ruins. There are carpets and cushions strewn about the place, and it looks rather like a lovely place to relax.

They are given rooms, but Ezio risks censure by declining the offer.

"Would you like a bigger bed while you're at it?" Yusuf asks, laughing. "We have the room for both of you, no need to be shy."

Ezio arches a brow. "Bigger bed would suit us wonderfully, actually," he says, daring.

Yusuf looks taken aback by that for about half a breath and then he laughs and pats Ezio's shoulder and leaves them to it, still chucking as he goes. What he actually thinks is hard to say, but Ezio muses that working alongside Yusuf should be an interesting experience either way.

"Ezio Auditore _de la la la,_ " Desmond says, grinning. "Never getting sick of that one. De la la la. Pfft."

Ezio casts him an unimpressed look. "I'm glad you are amused," he says with a scoff.

"Sorry, Mentor de la la la," Desmond grins.

Ezio rolls his eyes. "Cheeky," he mutters and then inspects the room. It's quite nice, really – he was given a desk, a shelf, even a nargile of his own, though Ezio can't say he's ever particularly enjoyed the habit – be it tobacco or opium in the device. This time it's the former, thankfully – and the smell of the place, it's the same with the rest of the Assassins' headquarters. Just as well, really.

"Ah man, they gave us a hookah," Desmond sighs, crouching by the nargile. "Now I miss weed."

"Hookah?" Ezio asks and then makes a face. " _Weed_?"

Desmond notions to the nargile. "This thing – hookah. We used to have one in the bar – the tavern – I worked at. Not strictly speaking legal, but we smoked weed on it. Uh, cannabis – hemp?"

Ezio arches his brow. "I see."

"Don't judge, it was nice. A way to wind down after a really bad day," Desmond says and considers him. "Really really good painkiller too, actually."

"My back is _fine_ now, thank you, Desmond," Ezio sighs but presses the comment to his memory. "Do you have anything you wish to do at the headquarters now? I would like to take in the city while it's light out."

"Sure," Desmond says and stands up. "Let's go."

* * *

 

Constantinople is quite the impressive city. The streets are narrow and confusing and the buildings sit close together, making everything feel slightly too closed up. On the roofs it's not that much better, they seem to be as confusing as the streets below, winding and making twists and turns that Ezio finds do not suit his sensibilities, more used as he is to the rooftops of Rome, which are somewhat uniform in ways.

Together with Desmond he climbs a few high towers to get their bearings, and it barely helps at all – everything looks so same and yet not at all the same from above.

"It will take some time to get used to this city," Ezio admits. "It's bigger than I assumed."

"Warmer than Masyaf, though," Desmond says, his legs hanging off the edge of the rooftop. "Never did figure out how well you liked the place. A lot of the time it seemed like you kind of just endured being here."

Ezio glances at him and then at the city below. "I have made myself comfortable in cities not familiar to me, I suppose I could make do here as well. It's a fine city," he muses. "But it's not Rome."

Desmond smiles at that, watching him.

"I have no doubt I will enjoy it better for your company," Ezio says, smiling.

"Mm-hmm," Desmond hums and then smiles, a little wider. "You know, I noticed that the walls of our room are solid stone," he comments then, completely innocent.

Ezio blinks and then coughs. "They seemed to be, yes."

Desmond arches his brow, smiling still.

Ezio coughs again. "Perhaps we should find a bazaar," he says then and looks away, trying not to blush like a boy third his age. Desmond pouts and Ezio clarifies, "We're running out of oil."

"Oh," Desmond says and rolls to his feet. "By all means, then, after you… Mentor de la la la."

Ezio sighs and pushed Desmond towards the ledge. "Jump down before I throw you down."

Desmond laughs all the way into a pile of hay below.

* * *

 

"... I always thought that was an exaggeration by the Animus," Desmond muses, as they return to the assassin headquarters and seek out the baths. In a proper bit of decadence, the headquarters has a full Turkish bath of its own – and there are several nargiles in the room as well.

The Ottoman Assassins are truly people after Ezio's own heart.

"What, exchanging money for goods?" Ezio asks. "Surely you buy things in the future as well."

"You bought _a shop_ , Ezio. Like it was nothing," Desmond says flatly. "I mean I saw you do things like that dozens of times but I didn't think it was actually real, or happened just like that. I thought it was a mechanic they added to make it more interesting for me."

"How self-centric of you."

"You know what I mean," Desmond says, waving a hand as they undress for the bath. "But seriously – you really do that, you just... buy shops?"

"I rented a spot at the bazaar for that blacksmith to use to sell his wares, that is all. It is an investment, Desmond, not a permanent arrangement – in answer he will pay me a share of his profits," Ezio says and shakes his head. "We are going to stay here for some time. It is a decent way to accumulate funds and it helps me settle in and foster a certain reputation."

"As a rich Florentine," Desmond says.

"Being a Florentine isn't something I can precisely hide," Ezio pointed out. "I have something of an eye for business, and it doesn't hurt to be known for your generosity – especially for an Assassin. And as I said – it is a way to fund the Brotherhood."

"Huh," Desmond says. "That makes perfect sense and yet somehow I've never seen it that way. That's pretty amazing."

"Thank you, dearest, I do try."

Though they try and take advantage of the baths and enjoy them to the fullest, there is a pristine bottle of oil waiting for them, and each moment that passes makes the tension grow. Ezio thinks he will burst before they get to their rooms, and then Desmond moves behind him, murmuring, "Should wash you. _Thoroughly._ "

"My love?" Ezio asks and then Desmond's fingers are on his backside, dipping slowly into the valley between his cheeks. "Dearest, it's a public bath –"

"With a door that locks," Desmond grins. "And there is no one here but us. I think out of respect to the Mentor –"

"Don't say it –"

"... Who is visiting and might not be used to public bathing," Desmond grins and kisses his neck. "Will you let me clean you?"

Ezio glances around with his Gift just in case, but Desmond is right – they are quite alone.

Ezio hums and looks at his young lover. Desmond's eyes are dark with desire, and even if Ezio did not already crave it, that look alone would have been enough to make him buckle. "Do whatever you will with me, my dear," Ezio murmurs and leans to kiss him. "I am all yours."

Desmond kisses him gently and then reaches for the soap. "Brace yourself against the wall, alright? And spread your legs a little – yeah, like that."

What follows is the most thorough and enjoyable wash Ezio had ever gotten, as Desmond lathers his entire groin area from front to back in soap and all but massages it in, rubbing slowly and steadily everywhere. Over and around his manhood, all about his balls and past them – and of course, his hole gets especial attention, several passes, and after rinsing him out gently with warm water, Desmond follows with his finger, sliding in and out, pouring water over his back with the other hand

It's all Ezio can do, stay standing under the assault. It's not deep enough to be called pleasurable, but Ezio finds himself finding enjoyment in the sensation, strange though it still is. Desmond is outright avoiding pleasuring him, and the anticipation leaves Ezio breathless – knowing that Desmond is cleaning him for himself…

Ezio rests his forehead against the cool tiles and sighs, "Might I trouble you to use your mouth? It was very pleasant, the last time."

"Later, I'll eat you out to your heart's content," Desmond promises while Ezio shudders to his fingers. "Wouldn't do to have the Mentor walking around with a raging hard-on. People might talk."

"Oh, let them," Ezio whines, but Desmond only laughs and kisses his back before withdrawing his fingers.

"There's a bed I want to spread you out on and watch you squirm upon," the young man breathes, much to Ezio's embarrassed delight. "Preferably without the risk of us slipping and breaking our skulls on the floor tiles."

"Oh, how you tease," Ezio says.

"It's payback. Now come on, _my love._ Let's go."

No one pays them much mind when they head out – and if Ezio is redder in the face than usual, it's probably chalked up to the effect of the baths. So they make it to their room without comment or incident, to find a surprise waiting for them.

Yusuf, it seems, had taken him seriously – there's a bigger bed in place of the single bed Ezio was offered before, and the number of seat cushions in the room has doubled.

"I can't decide if that man is shameless or if he thinks we are," Ezio muses.

"I think it might be both," Desmond says, his hands coming to Ezio's hips, pressing against him from behind. "It's a good thing, yeah?"

"Mmm," Ezio answers and pushes back against Desmond. He can feel the younger man's hardness though their robes. "I think there was something about spreading me on that bed? Quite a bit of space for it now."

"What, you want me to throw you down on it?" Desmond asks, smiling against the back of his neck and grinding successively against him while easing Ezio's robes off.

"I absolutely _do_ ," Ezio purrs.

"Then I absolutely _will,"_  Desmond murmurs, drops their clothing to the floor and then puts his word to action, whirling Ezio around and pushing him back towards the bed, throwing him down on it hard enough that he almost bounces. Without wasting a moment, Desmond climbs on top, takes his face between his hands, and kisses him.

It's unexpectedly lovely to have Desmond in control. Though not precisely submissive in any way, the young man sometimes comes across a little passive, letting Ezio do what he wants, taking his own enjoyment from it but not truly striving for more than that. Hesitant, Ezio might have called it.

Now he's not only very active – he is possessive, drawing his hands up and down over Ezio's waist and enjoying the curve there while his tongue lays hungry claim first to Ezio's mouth, then to his neck, his chest, his stomach…

Ezio keeps his thighs together just for the enjoyment of having Desmond force them apart and then up, his big, strong hands forcing Ezio to inexorably to bend in two, his body laid open as Desmond forces his knees to his chest and growls, "Hold them."

Ezio shivers with delight and does as ordered – and then Desmond folds him even further, his hands behind Ezio's lower back, pushing him even further up until his hips come off the mattress and Ezio had to blush at the position – bent and presented like the worst whore, his most private parts spread out and _displayed._

And then Desmond puts his mouth on him, never once even touching his manhood, and Ezio loses all shame. Desmond's beautiful lips closer over his entrance in a wet kiss and then his tongue laves over it, hot and wet and surprisingly powerful. For a moment Desmond just licks him like that, over and over, getting the whole area moist and tender. Then his tongue moves around the entrance, the tip of it prodding and teasing until it finally strikes the centre.

Ezio couldn't have stopped himself from moaning even had there been Templars in the other room, looking to find him. Desmond makes small licks at first, careful, testing – and then he ventures deeper, thrusting his tongue further and further until Ezio feels pierced upon it, shocked at how thick it gets. It's nowhere near close enough that spot within him that steals his breath, but it's good, it is so good,"

"Desmond," Ezio sighs. "My dearest darling – oh –"

Desmond thrusts his tongue in a few more times and then licks at him inside, his hands holding Ezio up while his thumbs spread him obscenely open for his mouth. How long it goes on, Ezio can't say – time comes at tides upon him with every wave of Desmond tongue, meaningless and distant.

When Desmond stops, Ezio's lost the rhythm of his breathing and in belated embarrassment he realises he's been all but keening in pleasure.

"Oh, don't stop," Ezio begs – and then cries out as Desmond's finger, without warning, works its way into his throbbing, saliva slickened passage. Desmond's mouth follows is, kissing him around the finger while it makes its way deeper and, yes, right where Ezio wants it.

Desmond was right – Ezio squirms, shameless and needy, into his hands and mouth. Now that he knows it's coming, it's even better than it was the first time, that core deep pleasure that Desmond's finger inside him and at that magical spot prompts.

All Ezio can do is clutch at the headboard and push into it, helpless in ecstasy. Desmond gives him a warning hum when his legs slip lower and Ezio grabs them with one arm, whining as Desmond strokes the spot inside him.

Then Desmond adds more oil and begins fucking him with his finger, first slowly and carefully, letting him get used to it and then with increasing speed and force. The sensation is – beyond anything. The rub against his insides is strange and numbing in its burn, and Ezio wants it, whispering, "Oh, _more,"_  until the noises Desmond's hand makes on him become vulgar.

He's never felt anything like this, and now he thinks he knows why Desmond so enjoys it. Oh, he really does.

"I think I could bring you off just like this," Desmond murmurs hotly against the soft skin between Ezio's balls and entrance. "Fuck, you're so into this, aren't you?"

"Please, no – I want to feel you, beloved, please," Ezio pleads, pushing his hips up Desmond's hand as much as he can. " _Please,_  Desmond."

"Yeah," Desmond breathes out and then pulls his hand away. Ezio takes the opportunity to try calming down the desperate beat of his heart and the stuttering of his breath, closing his eyes and just breathing, his whole body shaking.

When he looks, Desmond is leaning over him with hard, red cock in hand – aimed at Ezio's behind. The sight is glorious and also frightening – Desmond's manhood is quite a deal thicker and longer than his fingers – in fact, he looks frighteningly big, now that Ezio looks at him.

Desmond looks at him, arcing his brows and breathing a little harder – and oh, his lips are wet and swollen and beautifully red. Ezio licks his own lips, and then reaches for him.

"Kiss me," he orders. "Kiss me while you enter me. I want to feel you everywhere."

"Ezio for fucks sake," Desmond whines and then leans to kiss him. Ezio throws his arms around him and then his legs, moving his hips towards Desmond's until –

It's a great deal bigger. Just the feel of the cock head resting against him makes him shudder with realisation – this, this is going to be imbedded in him and it's far bigger than Desmond's fingers, far bigger. And then, Desmond begins to push.

The stretch is beyond what he imagined – how Desmond spreads him out, parts his flesh in his way, forcing deeper – oh, lord, it's _so much_ –

"Push into it," Desmond breathes against his cheek as Ezio shudders with pain and uncertainty. "Push into it, from the inside, like you're –"

Ezio leans his head back, gritting his teeth as he pushes – and that somehow opens him more and more as Desmond's forces into him, an inch or so driving into his core. Getting the idea, Ezio pushes more, opening himself up – there is really no relaxing into this, is there? And slowly, inch by inch, Desmond settles within him, all of him, _too much_ of him.

Ezio is gasping for breath at the end, clawing at Desmond's back – the pain is worse than he expected, all-encompassing and invasive and –

Desmond kisses him gently, a terribly sweet counterpoint to the pain. "It helps if you keep pushing into it," he says. "But take your time."

Ezio swallows and looks at him. "Move and I will."

"You should take a moment to –"

" _Fuck me,_ Desmond."

Hesitating only a moment, Desmond presses a kiss to his lips and then begins moving, withdrawing. Ezio feels cored in his wake, empty and hollowed out – and then Desmond pushes back in, so slowly, torturously slowly.

It takes a while before Ezio's body begins opening to the pleasure – when Desmond hits him just so that it brings forth that spark of pleasure. "There –" Ezio gasps and Desmond stops there, right there. "Oh, god, Desmond –"

Between them, Desmond grabs the base of his cock and keeps his hand there as he continues, fucking Ezio only with as much as is needed to hit that spot and go no further. Ezio keens, gripping him harder with his arms and legs as Desmond thrusts into him, fucking just that spot – even going as far as stopping there to grind against it with just the tip, battering Ezio from the inside.

Ezio can barely think beyond it. Desmond makes love with all the experience of one who's used to receiving and knows what feels good – and lord, the edge it gives him! And yet Desmond himself is grunting, frustrated, keeping himself at check.

"You're making me feel – like a bad lover," Ezio gasps. "Oh, _hell,_ Desmond –"

"Don't worry about it –" Desmond groans and shallowly thrusts in again and again, panting against Ezio's face. They share a slack-mouthed kiss as they grind together and then Desmond grimaces and winces – between them, his hand is white-knuckled and his cock throbs within Ezio, urgent.

"You are at your brink?" Ezio breathes.

"I want to – make you come – _first_ –!"

Ezio lets out a cry as Desmond gives in to the inevitable and thrusts into him all the way, past his spot and deeper still. It's the strangest feeling, how he swells and twitches and jerks as he comes, grinding his release into Ezio's ass – Ezio can't feel it, not quite, but there's a foreign feeling of heat inside him and it's – nice.

"Stay," Ezio says, locking his legs around Desmond's back. "Stay until you can fuck me again."

"Speaking from experience – you're gonna be – so sore," Desmond gasps.

"You seem to enjoy it," Ezio purrs. "Show me why."

Desmond whimpers, and with only a moment to catch his breath, slowly starts moving into him again.

* * *

 

When Ezio wakes up the next morning, Desmond is already awake but still in bed, lying across from him and slowly stroking his fingers through Ezio's beard.

"Morning, Ezio," he says softly, smiling.

Ezio hums deep in his throat, feeling his hand on Desmond's bare waist, their legs tangled together under the blanket. It's been days since they woke up like this, and he'd missed it, just having Desmond within arm's reach first thing as he woke up.

"Good morning, darling," Ezio answers, closing his eyes again and sighing, sleepy.

"How are you feeling?"

Ezio considers it and then winces. He'd urged Desmond on quite a bit towards the end – he'd gotten used rather roughly by the young man, much to his own enjoyment. But Desmond was right. "Sore," Ezio admits. "And swollen. No, don't move," he grunts, tightening his hold as Desmond moves to get up. "I will survive a moment longer. You can lather me in ointment once I have fully woken up."

"Alright," Desmond agrees and settles back down, his fingers moving to stroke Ezio's hair. Desmond smiles, and it looks incandescent with contentment.

Ezio hums again. "If bending me over makes you like this, we ought to do it more."

Desmond lets out an amused huff of breath and leans in a little. "I'm good with anything," he says and then sighs, deep and utterly relaxed. "I love you."

"And I you," Ezio murmurs.

They lie together for a moment longer, while minutes tick by and beyond their chamber Constantinople wakes up. Neither is in any hurry to get up, not yet – but as long as no crisis happened. The world, the Masyaf Keys, all of it could wait for a moment.

"I have been thinking," Desmond murmurs against his neck.

"Hmm?" Ezio hums, not even opening his eyes. "Please don't, it's too early."

Desmond pushes against him lazily and then presses closer. It's a moment before he talks again, and by that time Ezio is half asleep again.

"Have I ever told you about this thing we have in the future called surrogacy?"

"Hmm, no. What is it?"

"Well…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, that's the story. It's not perfect but it's finished.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, hopefully with all this nonsense out of my system I can write some proper slow burn next time. 😘
> 
> (Ezio and Desmond get the Masyaf Keys and lot of nonsense that happened because of them doesn't, because Yusuf Tazim is a Gift and Deserved Better. They do something with the Keys, idk. Make them part of Assassin Library of Epicness maybe. Over all Desmond and Ezio spend few years in Constantinople because it's nice and warm and there aren't frozen ponds. Desmond introduces Ezio to joys of weed. They have ridiculous amount of sex. Ezio buys half of the city. All the good things
> 
> Ezio and Desmond circle around the idea of surrogacy for few years, considering hiring prostutute for it or something but in the end through some shenanigans maybe Sofia ends up doing it. There's no romance there because Desmond doesn't have the heart for it, but maybe there's friendship. Either way, Sofia stays happily in Istanbul and at her shop while Ezio gets the kids and together he and Desmond move back to Italy.
> 
> And if there absolutely has to be a cliche retirement farm, then Desmond gets a brewery and invents the art of cocktail making few centuries early.
> 
> And they live happily until Ezio is fucking 90 at least because fuck that dying at 60 nonsense, ain't nobody got time for that when there's healthy amount of sex to be had.
> 
> The fucking end.)


End file.
